Nine things Dean lost in a fire
by Bookjunk
Summary: As a firefighter Dean has almost gotten used to losing things in fires, but he remains unable to get past a fire that took place 22 years ago. AU
1. Something to believe in

**Chapter ****1: Something to believe in**

'There is this guy, right? I see him sometimes when we drive away from a scene. Sombre-looking, wears a trench coat. At first I thought he was a journalist, but he never makes any notes or anything. He just stands there, observing. So, then I thought he might be a pyromaniac. Not that he sets the buildings on fire, but like a passive pyromaniac. Someone who hasn't progressed to setting fire himself yet; he's still in the stage where he just likes to watch. Except he doesn't really watch the fire,' Dean chomped and it was a miracle that they could understand what he was saying. Sam eyed the copious amounts of food disappearing into Dean's mouth in between sentences with distaste. Not that the food wasn't good; it was excellent. The problem wasn't the food itself, but the way Dean was packing it away.

'This is really good by the way, Jess,' Dean said and Jessica smiled at him.

'Yeah, I can see. But you should tell Sam that; he made it.'

The older Winchester gave his brother a thumbs up and continued his attempt to finish the meal in record time. Dean knew exactly what Sam was going to say next. Something about showing appreciation for the spaghetti and respect for the cook by actually chewing. It was the same story every Friday evening. Tradition demanded that Dean swung by his brother's apartment, only two blocks from his apartment, and ate a decent meal. It was like Sam's service to the community: the feed your brother project. Dean would wolf the food down, Sam would protest and Dean would ignore him. This time, however, Sam didn't object except with his stare.

'So?' Sam said.

'So?' Dean repeated and Sam flinched when a strand of spaghetti dropped from Dean's mouth to his plate. Unperturbed, Dean scooped it up immediately and he winked at Jess. She tried to hide her amusement from Sam, but he noticed nonetheless.

'What about this guy?' Jessica asked.

'I don't know,' Dean said as he slurped up the last of the spaghetti and wiped his chin with his knuckles. Sam clacked his tongue disapprovingly and handed him a kitchen towel. Satisfied, Dean leaned back in his chair, wiping his hands.

'I've got a weird feeling about him. Like he pops into my head out of nowhere sometimes, you know?' Dean added. Jessica, also finished with her meal now, nodded, while his brother looked mystified. It was amazing how Sam was forever whining about how fast Dean ate, while Jessica ate almost as fast and he never said anything about that. Must be because he's sleeping with her, Dean thought. They waited with infinite patience, while Sam meticulously polished off the last of his spaghetti.

'So, you remember the party, Dean?' Sam asked, as they got up from the table. Jessica started to collect the plates. They had a nice system: one of them cooked and one did the dishes. Neither of those ones was ever Dean, which was fine by him. He was ridiculously incompetent at both. Aside from his laziness, this was probably the reason he mostly ate fast food; someone else did the cooking and no plates were needed. The way Dean ate, cutlery wasn't even necessary.

'Yeah,' Dean answered hesitantly. He had hoped Sam wouldn't bring it up. The boys went into the living room area, while Jessica stayed behind in the kitchen. In the beginning Dean had been worried she might feel left out, but she liked to hum a bit to herself while doing the dishes. Also, Dean suspected she felt much more comfortable listening to their conversation from the kitchen, than being in the midst of it. More often than not, Sam and he could be pretty obnoxious. Regularly, they got into petty squabbles and all she had to do was call out a warning from the kitchen and they would be shamed into silence.

'You gonna come?' Sam asked and he looked expectantly at Dean. It was the eye routine. Sam had gotten really good at it over the years. Those puppy eyes would look at Dean and he would find himself promising the most insane things. That was how Sam had roped him into painting their apartment and helping him move their stuff there. To be fair, without the eyes he would have been convinced too, but Sam used them for practically everything.

'Depends. Are you gonna try and humiliate me again?' Dean said. Muted noises could be heard from the kitchen: soft humming and occasionally the clanging of a plate against the sink. They sat down and Sam suddenly avoided eye contact and drew a circle on the couch with his right hand. Great; Dean knew what that meant.

'There _is_ someone I want you to meet,' Sam announced. It was a sentence Dean had heard numerous times before and nothing good had ever come of it. Nor would there ever, Dean thought. He sighed.

'Sam, don't tell me you said that to him.'

'Well...'

Yeah, that had been a stupid question. Sam followed the same pattern every time. Someone, usually a fellow student from Stanford, would seem perfect for Dean and Sam would go about arranging a date with the subtlety of a rhinoceros.

'You always do this. You build me up like I'm some prize and then they see I'm just a dumb jock,' Dean protested.

'You're not a dumb jock,' Jessica objected from the kitchen. It was nice to know that they were proud of him and all, but Sam had the dubious talent to wax lyrically about him to just about anyone. With Sam studying pre-law and Jessica doing medicine; two of the most challenging studies out there, Dean had been told, you would think they had more important things on their mind than to hook up a lowly fireman.

'The point is that you make it awkward long before it needs to be awkward. If you say, 'This is my brother Dean' at the party than that will be embarrassing enough, because you're so obvious, you'll practically telegraph that I'm single and that it is a sort of blind date,' Dean explained for the umpteenth time. It was embarrassing and awkward. Probably worse than internet dating and Dean prayed he would never have to find out. But who knew? It would not be unlike Sam to write a dating profile for him without telling him about it.

'I'm sorry. Jessica and I just...'

'...want me to be happy. I know. But I am happy,' Dean finished. Do not think about that statement; I _am_ happy, he thought. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

'By the way, the last time you set me up it turned out it wasn't my sparkling conversation that attracted him, but my abs,' Dean admonished Sam. His brother didn't even look ashamed; instead he rolled his eyes.

'Like you mind.'

'Actually, I did. Did you know he said I wasn't 'at his intellectual level'?' Dean said. That had stung. The guy had obviously been a major douche bag, but it had still stung. Now Sam did look a little remorseful.

'He's a snob,' Sam offered and Dean wasn't comforted in the least. What did it mean to be a snob? You thought you were better than someone else and no matter how much of a douche bag the guy had been he had still been about a bazillion times smarter than Dean. So, there was this nagging voice in the back of Dean's mind that told him that the guy had every right to feel better than him. He was better than Dean.

'He's an asshole,' Jessica yelled from the kitchen and her input did placate Dean a bit. Amused, he leaned towards the kitchen and scolded her.

'Jessica Lee Moore, watch your language.'

'Who have you invited?' Dean asked and Sam settled back, as if they were now going to have a much more relaxed conversation. The younger Winchester started to rattle of names of several mutual friends of Jessica and his, some study group members and his new favourite professor. Every few weeks Sam had a new favourite professor; Dean called them his crushes. His brother strenuously objected to this term, so of course Dean bandied it around every chance he got.

'Ah, your new crush,' Dean teased and Sam opened his mouth to reply, but to Dean's surprise he shut it again. Calmly, Sam smoothed the fabric of his pants, before triumphantly gazing at his brother.

'At least I've got crushes. When was the last time you liked someone?' he responded and Dean was silent for a second. What a low blow, and that after they had just discussed why it was hard for Dean to allow himself to like someone. He didn't even have a diploma, aside from the one from kindergarten that you got for being able to tie your shoe laces. The only reason he had landed a job as a fireman was because their dad's old friend Bobby had pulled a few strings. Dean wasn't good enough, and his lack of education wasn't the biggest problem.

'Dean, I don't get how in all other matters you're arrogant as hell, but in this area you're so insecure,' Sam stated with a weary voice. Insecure wasn't the right word, Dean thought; he was secure in the knowledge that he wasn't worthy.

'I don't get this whole occult obsession of yours either,' Dean snapped. It was Sam's weakness. Dean's brother was emerged in courses on civil law and criminal law and any kind of law you could think of, but still Sam insisted on following extra courses entirely unrelated to his major. It had started with a few religious courses. Dean had objected, because he was afraid that they might take up time that Sam needed to study something useful. Par for the course, Sam had ignored him and now he often busied himself with books about werewolves and witches and vampires. Ridiculous nonsense that distracted him from actual schoolwork. They had gotten into quite a few fights about this subject already.

'Now boys, play nice,' Jessica chided as she came into the living room. For the rest of the evening they chatted pleasantly. It wasn't until Dean was walking home, after another reminder from Sam about the dreaded party, that he wondered about liking someone. Not since the fire 22 years ago had he wanted to have what Sam had now with Jessica, because if he didn't have it he couldn't lose it either. Now, however, he discovered he might want it after all. Too bad that he didn't believe he deserved to have it.


	2. Fingertip

**Chapter 2: Fingertip**

The night of the dreaded party had arrived. Sam was in the kitchen preparing the last of the food, while Jess was busying herself with the drinks. Meanwhile, Dean was trying to steal appetizers, but Sam was watching him like a hawk. With his eyes on Dean, Sam missed Jessica swiping a few salmon thingies. She shoved them into Dean's general direction when Sam wasn't looking and Dean grinned. Thwarted by his own girlfriend; ha. It was only right. Dean was also a guest after all and the food was most likely the only thing he was going to enjoy tonight.

Sam's eyes narrowed with suspicion when he saw that Dean was chewing, but Dean shrugged innocently. The older Winchester then pretended to surreptitiously check his beeper. The gesture appeared to alarm Sam.

'You're not on duty, are you?' Sam said and Dean replied that he wasn't, but it hadn't rained in weeks, so you never knew. Fingers crossed, Dean held his hand up to his brother.

'Are you actually hoping that some happy camper or stupid kid will start a fire?' Sam asked with exasperation.

'If it gets me out of this party? You bet,' Dean answered. Of course he was lying. He never hoped for fires. On the other hand, this party would probably be a disaster, so he might as well get paid to attend another disaster. Though it was September and it should reasonably be cooling down, it was unseasonably hot. Plus, if it had to be any fire, Dean much preferred fires in nature to fires in residential building: less chance of people being in the fire. Even though he wasn't on duty officially; he could always be called upon in the case of a major fire, so Dean resolved not to drink. Maybe just one beer.

It was a bit of a dilemma, because if he did drink the party would be much more tolerable, but then if he got called he couldn't go. Yet, if he didn't drink there was the possibility that he would have to be sober the entire night and listen to Sam's friends be pretentious. Granted, they weren't all pretentious, but there were always one or two insufferable jerks in the mix at Sam's random parties.

Slowly, guests started to trickle in and before long the moment arrived for Sam to humiliate Dean. A rather attractive man entered the apartment and Dean gave him the once over. Looks: good, personality: remains to be seen. Sam immediately took the man by his arm and practically dragged him over to Dean.

'Richard, this is my brother Dean. Dean, this is Richard. We play squash together,' Sam said and his eyes bounced from on to the other. Richard looked at Dean as if he was an especially tasty treat. It was a look Dean was on the receiving end of quite frequently, so it didn't faze him anymore. Still, there was something deeply unpleasant about the unadulterated lust that emanated from Richard's gaze. Nonetheless, Dean bore the look with patience and he didn't even say anything about the squash thing. Sam played squash, the most snobbish of sports, aside from polo, golf, and – _maybe_ - hockey: when did that happen?

Richard launched into a complicated talk, but really more of a lecture, about metaphysics. A little group formed around them and Sam deserted him. Now, Dean knew what meta was and he knew what physics were, but he had no idea what the hell metaphysics was. In the past, during Sam's parties, he would often nod and pretend he did know. However, this only made him feel more ridiculous and there was always someone who asked him something and then he had to either try to bluff his way out or fake a visit to the bathroom. So, nowadays he just came out and confessed he didn't know.

'I must have missed that class. Care to explain the basics?' Dean joked. His voice sounded a great deal more interested than he felt. The people grouped around them laughed. Most of them laughed genuinely, as if they knew that they were living in an academic bubble and they realised that it was arrogant to assume that everybody knew metaphysics. His potential date laughed too, but it was a reluctant snicker. It was a classic _is this guy for real_ laugh. Douche, Dean thought, and he excused himself to go to the bathroom. Instead he slipped out through the balcony doors.

Out on the tiny balcony, he breathed deeply. Outside it was still warm, but the night air was less stifling than it had been inside. It was good that Sam wasn't gay, because his brother really had the worst taste in men. He was forever trying to hook Dean up with these self-important, judgemental fellow students. Then again, Dean had to admit that if Sam would introduce him to a guy who worked at the local supermarket or gas station he would feel a little insulted.

Feeling better, he leaned against the cool steel of the railing. It felt nice against his skin. He spread his fingers across the thick iron beam. It was always strange to suddenly become aware of the shorter index finger on his left hand. He turned the hand in question around, palm upward and looked at the finger with the missing fingertip. It had happened when he had only been a fireman for a couple of months and now he hardly noticed it anymore.

The guys he slept with did. There was usually an uncomfortable moment when they saw the _deformity_ and they were either disappointed or relieved. It was as if they were on a hunt for physical perfection, and they had been raving about his muscles and hair and jaw line, and then they saw the missing fingertip and they fell silent. So, they either feared perfection or craved it. Not that Dean thought he was close to being perfect, nor did he want to be. Either way, it was strange, though relief was the better emotion. Those were the good ones, Dean thought; the ones who were relieved to notice the missing fingertip.

If they could handle physical imperfection, then they would also be able to handle everything else less than perfect about Dean. Naturally, Dean never aimed to find out, because he rarely fucked a man twice. That way the attraction remained physical and didn't become anything else. His body was all they were interested in anyway. Man, he needed a drink. He opened the balcony doors a bit and peered inside. What he really wanted was to grab a beer and be back on the balcony before anyone noticed.

Vaguely nodding to people, he made his way across the room, until he got to the fridge. When he opened it, the chilly cold on his face felt so good, but he resisted the temptation to linger. Quickly, he took a bottle and shut the door again. That was when he saw him. Dean sidled up to Sam and rudely pulled his brother out of a conversation.

'Sorry people, sidebar,' Dean announced and guided Sam into a dark corner. Sidebar, Dean wondered, and then realised that Sam's legal talk was rubbing off on him.

'How did you find him?' he whispered to Sam. There was something in his voice that he didn't like. Excitement. Why should he be excited? Slippery slope, Dean, he warned himself. For the moment, however, he didn't listen and didn't care.

'Find who?' Sam whispered back, glancing around in confusion, 'Why are we whispering?'

'The guy I told you about. That's him,' Dean said and he pointed towards the door. The man was still standing there, in the doorway. He was looking a bit hesitant, as if he thought he might have made a mistake in coming here.

'What guy?' Sam asked, trying to follow the direction of Dean's finger, but people kept getting in the way.

'Sombre-looking, trench coat. He's standing right there,' Dean hissed, while he pointed again. The man was gorgeous. How could he not have noticed that before? The man's eyes were wandering around the room, looking for someone it seemed, but the man stayed in place, not appearing to recognise anyone. Sam's face brightened when he finally saw who Dean meant.

'That's my new favourite professor. Wow, I didn't think he'd come. I've told you about him,' Sam said and he wanted to approach the man, but Dean pulled him back.

'Yeah, it's a little hard to keep up with your crushes,' Dean casually said and grinned when he noticed Sam's annoyed expression from his peripheral vision. Dean couldn't tear his gaze away from the man; there was an air of discomfort surrounding him. It cloaked him as effectively as that familiar light brown trench coat. What a weird thing to wear when it was so hot.

'He's not... Are you sure it's him?' Sam asked and Dean rolled his eyes.

'Yes, it's him and he fits my description perfectly. How could you not know?'

'Because your description was crappy.'

'Sombre-looking, wearing a trench coat; that's pretty clear,' Dean insisted and this elicited a frustrated sigh from his brother. Dean was still gripping Sam's arm tightly with his right hand. The beer in his other hand felt reassuring. The younger Winchester pushed away Dean's fingers and faced him with an amused smile.

'I don't know what to tell you, Dean. Usually he smiles more and he doesn't as a rule wear a trench coat during lectures,' Sam explained. It wasn't much of an explanation, Dean thought. Then he realised something he hadn't properly heard before.

'Wait, he's a professor? But he's young. He can't be a professor,' Dean asserted and this earned him another weary sigh from Sam.

'I've explained this before. Most of my professors are barely older than me. They're not all old geezers in tweed jackets like you keep picturing them. In fact, the smarter they are the younger they become professor and _he_,' Sam stressed, nodding at the man, 'is a genius. Now I'm going to welcome him. You want me to introduce you two?'

'No!' Dean said, a little louder than was strictly necessary. A few heads turned their way, but luckily the man still hadn't spotted them. Sam turned towards Dean with a baffled expression on his face.

'Why not?'

'Because you'll embarrass me.'

'Why, thank you,' Sam said drily, but Dean was already halfway across the room. Closing the doors of the balcony behind him, he heaved a sigh of relief. Dean took a slow sip from his first and only beer of the evening and put it down on the edge of the railing. That didn't taste quite as good as he had expected it to taste. Instead, he dug into the pocket of his jeans, peeled the wrapper of some gum and popped that into his mouth. For a while, he had smoked, but that had seemed ridiculous. He was out almost every day fighting fires, so it was stupid to let a little fire slowly kill him from the inside. Now, he always had some chewing gum with him, for the rare moments that he felt like smoking.

The truth was he didn't want to meet the man. Like Sam had said, the guy was a genius and Dean decidedly was not. Also, the bad beer had been disappointment enough for one evening. What if the man turned out to be even more of a douche than Richard? No, thank you; Dean liked to keep a few of his illusions intact.


	3. A forest

**Chapter ****3: A forest**

The sky was slowly turning a dirty yellowish grey, which usually meant rain. That was either good or bad, depending on whether you were standing on a balcony and didn't want to go inside, except if it was to leave through the front door for work. Suddenly, the balcony doors opened slightly and Sam's professor's head appeared. He seemed shocked to encounter Dean and hid it poorly. The man's obvious discomfort kind of amused Dean.

'I'm sorry. I didn't think anyone was out here,' he said and his head disappeared, but before the doors could close completely, Dean realised that he did want to meet the man. It was the difference that mollified him, because Dean had trouble trying to imagine Richard doing anything else than barging right in without any apology whatsoever. This guy had passed the first douche test. So, Dean called out.

'Stay. I don't mind.'

Nervously, the man appeared fully and closed the balcony doors behind him. They nodded at each other and Dean moved over a little to the left to give the man some space. Up close, he looked even hotter. There was the messy hair, the soft-looking lips and the striking blue eyes. Sam's professor was definitely hot. And as an added bonus, he was cute as hell. The man blushed under Dean's gaze and Dean quickly focused on the night sky behind him. Had he just eyed the guy as if he was a piece of prime rib? Yes, he had.

'Hot inside,' the man mumbled and glanced at Dean before looking away again. Ah, small talk: Dean was not good at small talk. Like not at all.

'Yeah. Hot out here too,' Dean answered, resisting the urge to point out that the guy was pretty hot himself too. He bit his lip to keep from laughing. Sam's quest to hook him up was impressive, but Dean wasn't sure it extended to being ok with Dean getting it on with his professor. At least he knew that the man hadn't been send here by either of Dean's pimps, because the look of complete surprise on his face when he saw Dean had been a little bit too genuine for that.

'I guess I'm not really a party person,' the man admitted and it sounded like an apology. The left hand of the man rubbed his neck awkwardly. His distress was adorable in a weird way. Dean couldn't help imagining what it would feel like to have those hands on his body.

'We can't all be,' Dean finally said. The man smiled gratefully at him. Then they resumed their staring at the sky. It was as if they were more relaxed now, as if the man had needed for Dean to tell him that it was alright. Dean wasn't a party person either; more of a go to a bar, get drunk and pick up random guys kind of person, really. But Dean was not drunk now and this was not some random guy.

A pause followed wherein they occasionally glanced at each other and quickly averted their gaze when they noticed the other was looking. It was like sexual tension 101, except Dean couldn't help thinking that the guy was too pure for that sort of thing. Come on, Dean, he thought, stop it. Those lips of his don't look like they've ever been kissed and here you're thinking of doing unspeakable things to him.

'Can I get you a drink?' Dean asked, expecting the man to ask for wine.

'Yes, thank you. I'd like a beer,' the man said. Dean was pleasantly surprised. Why? So, the professor liked beer: big fucking deal. Visibly steeling himself to go inside and possibly having to avoid Richard, Dean placed his hand on the door handle, but the man pointed out the beer bottle standing on the railing.

'Oh, I already drank from that.'

'But you're not going to finish it?' the man guessed and Dean allowed his hand to slip from door handle.

'No, don't feel like it,' Dean conceded and the man reached out his hand to accept the bottle.

'Then I'll save you a trip inside and accept that one,' he offered and he smiled at Dean. That smile was kind of to die for, Dean thought, as he took the beer. About to hand the bottle over, Dean changed his mind, and yanked his sleeve down over his hand to wipe the bottle's mouth clean. However, a beautiful hand on his arm prevented him. The man smiled at him again and mumbled that he didn't mind, so Dean handed him the bottle.

Except something happened when their fingers touched. A spark of electricity ran through Dean and he stared at the man. Dean must have been crazy; the exhaustion of the party and the storm hanging in the air must have screwed him up, because he took the beer from the professor. And after carefully setting down the bottle, Dean turned around and kissed him.

Their mouths connected with such force that Dean feared he might have loosened some teeth. What the hell was he doing? Dean was forward, but not _this _forward. The guy could be the most heterosexual of men. Yes, it had seemed like he was flirting, but the guy was obviously shy. What if he was mistaken? Jesus, they hadn't even exchanged names. Dean, you are such a whore, he admonished himself.

Luckily, the man grabbed the back of Dean's sweater and buried his fingers in the fabric, pulling Dean closer. His tongue darted into Dean's mouth and Dean moaned. There was a desire directly underneath his skin to rub himself all over and against the man. Friction; that was what he wanted.

Dean's fingers slipped into the man's hair, while all the while bringing their mouths closer together. The man placed his hands around the back of Dean's neck and Dean licked his way into his mouth. The professor made delicious noises that, to look at him, Dean would never have thought him to be capable of making. There was a deep rumbling in his throat as Dean bit his lower lip and gently tugged at it.

A strong vibration ran through them and Dean cursed into the man's mouth when he realised it was his beeper. Just when the party was becoming fun, damn it! Reluctantly, Dean disentangled various body parts. His teeth from the man's lip, his fingers from the man's hair, his right leg uncurled itself from around the man's legs. The professor's taste still lingered in Dean's mouth and Dean licked his lips as he reached for his beeper. Yep, major fire. Matched the fire in his groin.

'Would you mind telling Sam or Jess that I got paged to a forest fire?' Dean asked, avoiding having to look at the man.

'Who should I tell them?' he asked and this caused Dean to look up at him. It was hardly fair, but with his clothes in disarray the man looked impossibly hot. His hair was even messier, his tie was slightly askew and his lips... The professor's lips were swollen and flushed as the result of their passionate kissing. Dean was so mesmerised that he didn't even understand the question.

'What?' Dean whispered.

'Your name,' the man said and that shyness was completely gone. As he looked at Dean, a small amused smile played around his lips and this time it was Dean who blushed.

'Oh, it's Dean,' he answered and like an idiot he fumbled with the door handle. Starting the Impala, Dean realised he still didn't know the man's name, which was probably for the best. That guy felt serious, it would be hard to have just a fling with him, so perhaps it was better not to try. Intuitively, Dean gazed up at the balcony and the man raised his beer in greeting.

Do not think about him, Dean thought, as he drove away. Think about the fire. Since it was a forest fire and it hadn't rained in weeks, there would be little to do for ordinary fireman, except douse neighbouring houses with water, so the fire wouldn't spread to residential areas. Hope for rain, that was basically their job.

Please don't forget to put your keys in your locker again, Dean told himself. Remember that. That is much more important to remember than the heat of the man's hands or the way those bright blue eyes had bored into his own. Something in Dean's groin stirred. No, just no. But that wasn't the worst. It made him angry, because he had managed to bury this feeling for so long. He was happy without that; he didn't need that. Protesting was of no use however, because something in Dean's heart had stirred too.


	4. 7 keys

**Chapter ****4: 7 keys**

The rain had come too late. The forest had already gone up in flames, but at least they had been able to prevent the fire from spreading to the houses. Afterwards at the station, Dean had debated whether to take a shower or not. He was soaked and grimy, but he felt tired. The look would probably infuriate him too much. All of his colleagues knew he was gay and most of them couldn't give a shit. Yet, there were always a couple of jackasses, like how at Sam's parties there were always a few jerks. So, he would get the look if he showered with them. The look that said, 'Don't rape me if I bend over to retrieve the soap.' Yeah, like _that_ was going to happen. Those guys had seen too many prison movies.

When he reached the Impala and reached in his pockets he could just about kick himself. He was supposed to put his keys in his locker before riding out. What had he not done? Put his keys in his locker before they rode out. He had left them in his pocket under the uniform and then invariably they fell out sometime during work. Three more keys that he had lost. That made seven. Fuck. Getting into the car and starting it was no problem; result of a misspent youth. However, Dean did regret that now he had to pay Bobby a visit tomorrow. Or rather, later today, because it was around five in the morning. Bobby would be pissed off; this was the third time that Dean would have to drop by because he had lost his damn keys.

He had been distracted by thoughts of the hot professor. The smouldering hot professor that he was not going to see again, because the guy looked nice and Dean was anything but nice. Starting the car, Dean apologised to his baby and drove off. On the way to his apartment, he caught himself thinking about that tongue and those hands several times. Eventually, he put on some Zepp to fill the car with something else than his dirty thoughts.

It wasn't until he arrived at the apartment building that he realised the chick from upstairs had moved a week ago. This was important because the chick from upstairs, Sarah, had kept a set of his spare keys and he had kept a set of hers. A precaution for exactly these occasions. However, she had returned his keys and they were now safely inside his apartment. And he was outside without keys. Double fuck. This meant he would have to drive over to Sam and Jess' place, because they also had a spare key to his apartment. Except now the party would be over, because Sam had classes in the morning. He would be long asleep by now and Dean hated to wake him, so he resolved to sleep in his car.

It's not like he hadn't done that before, with or without company. The rain was not abating, so he would have to be quick in getting in the backseat, or he would get soaked all over again. As Dean got out he noticed someone sitting under the little canopy in front of the apartment building. You've got to be kidding me, he thought. Instead of getting in the car, he ran to the building.

It was the professor and he was sleeping. A book was balancing precariously on his knee, his head sagged backwards against the wall and his trench coat had fallen open, revealing the suit underneath. Dean guessed that the guy had come here after the party, resolved to wait for Dean while reading and had fallen asleep. Who did stuff like that? Stalkers, that's who.

Gently, Dean touched his shoulder and the man woke up. There was the initial confusion, because he did recognise Dean, but he did not recognise his surroundings. Finally, he seemed to cotton on to where he was and he smiled embarrassed. Smoothing down his suit, he got to his feet.

'How long have you been sitting here?' Dean asked. He wanted to add, 'you idiot,' because the guy could have gotten mugged or killed. There was something seriously wrong with him. No one sane would sit in the middle of the night on the doorstep of someone they've only talked to for a few minutes and whose last name they didn't even know.

'Not long. And I've got my book,' the man said and he patted his book fondly before slipping it into the right pocket of his trench coat.

'I've seen you before at the fires. And then you come here tonight; you're now officially giving off stalker vibes,' Dean told him. The tone he was going for was severe, but it came out more amused. You silly little stalker, you! Dean sighed. The crazy sex appeal of the guy was getting to him.

'I'm aware,' he muttered. His head was bowed and he seemed contrite. As he lifted his blue eyes to gaze at Dean, Dean realised he wasn't remorseful at all, though he did appear a bit ashamed of his behaviour.

'Alright, as long as you know. What are you doing here?' Dean asked.

'Just wanted to make sure you were alright. I'll go now,' the man said. Dean watched his retreating back, the rain colouring his hair a shade darker and discovered he didn't want him to leave. It was a stupid impulse and he was stupid to give in to it, yet he did.

'Wait, what's your name?' he called out and the man came back. The rain was really coming down now, but the man walked leisurely back, until he was under the canopy again. Dean almost groaned out of frustration when he realised the man was on foot. Etiquette demanded that he offer the man a ride home. Luckily, Dean hardly ever listened to etiquette. Politeness was not for him. Just get his name, so you have a name to call out when you masturbate, he told himself. Hot professor was a little impersonal. That was so wrong, but it brought a smirk to Dean's face nonetheless.

'Hi, I'm James Novak,' the man said and they shook hands as if they hadn't been ravishing each other like two sex starved strangers a couple of hours ago.

'James?' Dean tried. He tasted the name on his lips and it didn't feel quite right.

'Well, it's Castiel actually, but my middle name is James and that's a bit more conventional, so I usually go by James,' he explained. It seemed he was not a fan of his own name, which was unnecessary. He was clearly not conventional, so he should not have a conventional name either. A special name for a special guy: Castiel suited him.

'Castiel,' Dean whispered and his husky voice brought a blush to Castiel's cheeks. Yeah, Dean could easily imagine panting that name. A little too easily perhaps.

'It could have been worse; they were thinking about naming me Uriel,' Castiel said and he chuckled. Dean honestly didn't see what was wrong with Castiel. It was a biblical name, but Castiel did look rather angelic. Dean was acquainted with the Bible; after he came out his father had embarked on a, thankfully short lived, mission to straighten Dean out. Awkward dinner chats with priests were had. They were more enjoyable, Dean discovered, when he had some things handy to quote back at them, so he had read the Bible several times. Surprisingly, there was some good stuff in it. A whole lot of nonsense too, though.

'No, I like Castiel.'

'Then you can call me Castiel,' Castiel offered and they smiled at each other. Wistfully, Dean stared at the door. A warm shower and bed were so close by. Three stairs up, two doors away, yet he couldn't get in.

'What's wrong?' Castiel asked and Dean admitted that he had lost his keys. Castiel asked about spare keys and Dean admitted that Sam had those, but that his brother also had classes in the morning. Before Dean could stop him Castiel had pushed one of the buttons next to the door. It was five in the morning and now the one neighbour who was going to answer was going to despise him. Dean had really preferred to remain on nodding in the elevator terms with everyone, but that chance was gone now. He peeked at the name tag. L. Harris was the lucky person who was going to hate his guts for all eternity.

'Hi Laura, it's James. Could I...' Castiel began, but a buzzing sound followed and the door opened before he could finish his sentence.

'Come on up,' an excited female voice chirped. Dean didn't like the excitement. How did Castiel even know her? Castiel took his finger off the button and whispered that Laura and he had talked for a few minutes while he was waiting for Dean. She had told him that she was going to be up all night watching old movies and that he was welcome to join her at any time. His finger pressed the button again.

'I am coming up, but I'm afraid it's not to your door. Dean has arrived,' Castiel explained. The apology was clear in his voice as he took his finger off the button and glanced at Dean.

'Dean Winchester? Oh.'

'So, that's what complete and utter disappointment sounds like,' Dean joked. The exercise was futile anyway, because he could now enter the apartment building, but he could still not get into his apartment. He told Castiel that, but the professor only smiled and held the door open for him. As they walked up the three flights of stairs, Dean was starting to feel slightly ridiculous. Arriving at his door, Castiel reached into his pocket and took out what looked like two hairpins. Dean was shocked into silence when Castiel kneeled down and started to pick the lock.

How could someone who looked like that know how to pick locks? His slender fingers were expertly twisting the pins and there was a look of concentration on his face. Dean swallowed with difficulty when Castiel tilted his head to listen for the click and he returned the pins to his pocket when he heard it. Dusting off his knees, Castiel straightened and opened the door for Dean. A man with the face of an angel and the skills of a criminal; gimme gimme gimme. It was difficult to think under the circumstances, but Dean didn't think he had ever been this turned on.

'There you go,' Castiel said and Dean pulled him into the apartment by his tie. At least now we know each other's names, Dean thought, as he shoved Castiel against the wall. After three tries, he finally got the door closed. Castiel's lips were hot under his and they parted eagerly when Dean's tongue wanted to enter his mouth. They kissed feverishly, while Dean undid the tie and slipped off the trench coat. He was pressed against Castiel and his body felt soft and hard at the same time. When their kisses grew more demanding, Dean began to unbutton Castiel's shirt, but the other man pushed him away.

Dean was unsure of what to do for a moment, because he wanted to flip the light switch so he could see Castiel, but he also wanted to stay by his side. In one smooth motion, Castiel turned the tables and had Dean pinned against the wall. His hands were under Dean's shirt and Dean gasped as his fingers dug into his skin. Castiel's mouth was near his ear and he didn't even lick his earlobe or nibble on it. All he did was breathe and it sent shivers down Dean's spine.

They tore at each other's clothes, Dean sucked hard on Castiel's neck and Castiel's hands felt like a thousand degrees on Dean's hips. Suddenly, Castiel stopped their frantic groping and grabbed Dean's wrists. He placed them against the wall and held them there, while he started to slowly kiss Dean. His lips were supple and he kissed Dean with care. With tenderness. It was torture, delicious torture. If Dean had any willpower, he would have gladly stood there the rest of his life while Castiel explored every corner of his mouth with that fantastic tongue. But Dean was on sensory overload and he couldn't bear it for long.

When Dean felt that he was going to have an orgasm just standing there, kissing, he finally couldn't take it anymore and broke free. In a matter of seconds they were both naked. Castiel took Dean up against the wall and Dean took Castiel hard on the floor. It was unlike anything Dean had ever experienced before. It was rough and raw, the way he liked it, but it was also safe. Not only because the sex was literally safe and protected, but because Dean felt safe and protected. It was a lot of things at once; things that Dean felt couldn't go together. It was violent and dirty, yet there was a kindness behind every touch.

Castiel treated him with a restrained gentleness that was new to Dean. Even in the midst, as they were moving, moving, moving, Castiel was careful not to hurt him. Never to hurt him. It wasn't sex. It was making love. Afterwards, as they lay panting side by side, Castiel leaned over and kissed Dean's fingers one by one. He paused as he came to the finger with the missing fingertip.

'What happened to your fingertip?'

'Lost it in a fire. Steel door slammed shut. It was a clean cut, seared shut immediately,' Dean explained. Through the window a beam of moonlight fell on Castiel's face as he regarded the finger, but Dean didn't need to see it to know. There was no relief or disappointment, only concern when he asked whether it had hurt.

'Nah,' Dean lied. Castiel remained silent, staring at him and after a few seconds Dean grinned.

'Yeah, like hell,' he admitted and Castiel popped the finger into his mouth. The warm, moist feeling and the tip of Castiel's tongue swirling around his finger felt like ecstasy. Dean was instantly ready for another round. Perhaps the really good guys didn't care about the disfigurement at all, but about him.

'You taste like cinders and rain,' Castiel whispered, after he was finished kissing every finger. Dean laughed.

'More like smoke and sweat. And sex,' he growled as he attempted to climb on top of Castiel. To say that he was disappointed when Castiel moved away was an understatement.

'I've got to go. One of the classes your brother has this morning is mine.'

'What do you teach?'

'Magic, Witchcraft and Religion in about two hours, but mostly Metaphysics.'


	5. Glass

**Chapter 5: Glass**

When Dean woke up around twelve o'clock he was disappointed when he felt that the place beside him in bed was empty. He missed that warmth, which was ridiculous because they hadn't even made it to the bed. Also, how could you miss something you'd never had? Dragging himself out of bed, he put the coffeemaker to work and dressed. After a particularly strong cup of coffee, he went over to Sam and Jess.

Jess opened the door; looking a little worse for the wear. She was slightly hung over and happy not to have classes today. Dean wanted to ask about the spare keys to his apartment, because he clearly needed more sets of keys than just the spares now in his apartment and kept at their place. Maybe he needed to hide keys all over the city, so that whenever he lost them he would just have to walk around the corner and he could fish them out of a tree or dig them up from under a bush. Stupid idea. He needed to put his keys in his locker like all the other firemen did.

The keys were not the reason he was there, though he did mention losing them to Jess. Bleary eyed, she looked up from pouring coffee into two cups.

'You lost your keys again? Dean, seriously,' she chided him. Her voice sounded hoarse and a tad broken. Must have been a fun party for her, Dean thought. Then again, it didn't end so badly for him either. He opened his mouth to tell her about what a douche Richard had turned out to be, but shut it in time. Like Sam, Jess was very protective of him and he wouldn't put it past her to punch Richard in the face the next time she saw him. In addition, she would tell Sam and Sam would probably think that Dean had imagined that patronising laugh. And Dean guessed it might be hard to find a decent squash partner, after your girlfriend punched the previous one in the face. So, he resolved not to tell them.

'How did it work out with James?' Jessica asked and he knew she was going for innocent, but instead she sounded curious. As she peered at him over her steaming cup of coffee, he suspected that the cup was hiding a devilish smile.

'You gave him my address? Why the hell would you do that?'

'Because he asked me for it,' she simply answered. It was a miracle he hadn't been maimed or killed or worse, yet, if they kept handing out his address to every nut who asked for it. What if Richard had asked for it? It didn't bear thinking about.

'He could have been a stalker,' Dean protested. She took a sip and sighed contentedly. While Dean remained standing at the counter, refusing the cup she had slid towards him as a peace offer, she sat down at the kitchen table.

'And, was he?' she queried. Of course, he hadn't been. I mean, Dean thought, not really. He didn't have hot sex with strange stalker like types, did he? Castiel had been at the fires and he hadn't actually explained what he had been doing there. Dean had meant it as a joke, because he hadn't thought that Castiel had been there for him. Watching him. However, now he started to think that maybe that _had_ been the case.

'I haven't decided yet,' he grumbled and after a nudge from Jessica he accepted the coffee and sat down too.

'You two seemed to be getting along well enough at the party. I couldn't help noticing that you had a...connection,' Jess said and this time there was definitely an evil smirk on her face. Slowly, it dawned on him what she meant when she was talking about their 'connection' and he almost sprayed his coffee over the table.

'You watched us kiss? Pervert,' he scolded, but this only caused her to smile more. Stupidly, he was smiling too. He could feel the stupid smile plastered on his face and the stupid happy feeling in his stomach and he hated it.

'Two hot guys making out; nothing wrong with that,' Jess said, defending her voyeurism and she licked her lips. Dean had always thought that Sam was the one with an unhealthy obsession with his love life, but he was starting to revise his opinion. Their meddling had to stop.

'You know, if I end up breaking his heart you're to blame,' he said and he realised he sounded angry. He _was_ angry. The way he was feeling; that was not good. All happy. He had vowed never to see Castiel again and if it hadn't been for Sam and Jess handing out his address to every poor idiot who asked for it then he would have kept his promise. Jess glared at him as she put down her coffee. It hit the table just a little bit too hard and hot coffee sloshed over the rim and onto the table.

'Watch it, Dean,' Jess warned him. Her voice could take on a dangerous edge that was entirely unexpected. You would never think it when you looked at her, but sometimes the sweet girl just disappeared and a formidable opponent appeared in her place. Someone you didn't want to cross. Dean and Sam sometimes joked about the transformation, but secretly Dean thought it was scary and he was pretty sure Sam thought the same.

'What?'

'Bullshit is coming out of your mouth again. Oh wait, it's because you're talking out of your ass,' Jess said and she wiped down the table. Their eyes locked and she refused to let him go.

'And to think that I once thought you'd have a positive effect on Sam,' he joked, when he finally managed to wrestle his gaze free.

'Yes, I'm Lucifer,' she answered sardonically and smiled. Her mouth pursed into a thoughtful pout and she sighed as she regarded him. It was as if she didn't know what to make of him. Hell, he didn't know what to make of himself. He wanted and didn't want Castiel at the same time. It was like chick-central what with the contradictory feelings and the angst.

'I will...break him. Castiel, James; he is fragile, like glass and I will stomp on him. No, melt him down. There won't be anything left to glue together. He'll just be a little puddle on the floor, like the glass statue I'd painted for...' Dean stammered and he suddenly stopped, horrified. What was he saying? He was making absolutely no sense. Jess stared at him with this pitying look on her face that he despised. As she reached out to touch his arm, he pushed back his chair so hard that it almost clattered to the floor. He could only catch it just in time.

'Dean, don't let that ruin your life. One member of your family already has. That's quite enough. Survivor's guilt...' Jess began, but Dean cut her off by slamming the chair back in place and walking out.

(***)

His hands were shaking. He gripped the steering wheel of the Impala to keep them from shaking, but they still trembled. His grip was so tight that his knuckles whitened. It was mostly anger that he was feeling. Anger at himself for bringing it up. Anger at Jess for attempting to talk about it.

'Calm the fuck down,' he whispered at his reflection in the rear view mirror. Maybe seeing Bobby would help. Bobby was relaxed, unless something involved cars. He would yell at Dean for losing the key to the Impala again and that would distract Dean. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, but the shaking didn't stop. That terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach was still there too.

If he was really lucky the drive over to Bobby would do it and he would be alright before he got there. The drive was a bitch. Bobby didn't live in South Dakota anymore; he had moved to California after he had remarried after his wife's death, but the drive was still rough. There were little scraggly roads and barely legible road signs. You expected chainsaw wielding rednecks to jump out of the bushes at every turn. Fortunately, Dean knew the way and he also knew that the people looked scarier than they were.

It had been quite some time since he had visited Bobby, though. The fireman gig took up most of his time. Dean counted and was a bit ashamed when he discovered he didn't have enough fingers to add up the months he hadn't been over to Bobby's. He hadn't even properly thanked Bobby for getting him the job in the first place. That must have taken quite some work too; to convince them to hire such a worthless moron like himself.

As expected, Bobby cursed him for having hotwired the Impala again. It was nice in a way. Jess could be pretty foulmouthed, but it was mostly adorable in a sisterly kind of way. Sam was a bit of a ninny; he was so straight laced that Dean almost expected him to say 'darn' instead of 'damn.' Bobby cursed like a sailor and Dean loved it. There was something protective, but not overprotective, about Bobby's behaviour towards him.

'I got the same speech from Jess,' Dean said, when Bobby had finished his profanity riddled rant. Dean felt a pang of guilt about storming out on her. It was not Jess' fault that he was absolutely incapable of talking about his issues. He would have to make it up to her later.

'Smart girl,' Bobby remarked and he glanced at Dean. Uneasily, Dean averted his gaze. The drive hadn't done much in the calming him down department; he still felt out of sorts. Trying to think of something to say so that he didn't get into a fight with Bobby too, he landed on the long overdue thank you.

'I never thanked you for getting me my job,' Dean said and Bobby stared at him.

'What?'

'You talked to some people and got me hired,' Dean expanded, but Bobby remained staring at him.

'No, I didn't,' Bobby said. Dean rolled his eyes in disbelief and Bobby indicated their surroundings, before adding, 'Dean, I own a salvage yard. What makes you think I would be able to do that?' They stood there, staring at each other, for quite some time. If not Bobby, then who? It couldn't be Sam and it couldn't be Jessica. Dean was pretty sure Bobby's wife Ellen didn't have anything to do with it either. Jo was out of the question too, because she still seemed to take it rather personally that Dean didn't swing her way. That left only one person; the least likely person of them all.

'But I thought he looked down on my job,' Dean said softly. Bobby slapped his shoulder in a jovial manner that didn't suit him.

'John is an enigma, but I'm sure he's proud of you, boy,' Bobby offered. Thrilled that Dean suffered some of the same problems, maybe, but certainly not proud, Dean thought, but he didn't contradict the other man. As for enigma; absent was a better word. For the better part of Dean's life John had been absent, even when he was there. Sam would probably choose another word starting with an a to describe their father and for once his brother would not be afraid of being called a potty mouth.

Together they worked on the Impala and undid Dean's breaking and entering. Dean could have easily fixed the car himself, but he liked touching base with Bobby. It was inspiring to see how Bobby had built a new life for himself with Ellen Harvelle after the death of his first wife. There was a lesson in there about moving on after someone you loved died, but while Dean got it in theory he never put it into practice.

(***)

It was late in the afternoon when Dean got home. He was still on edge, but looking forward to spending some time doing nothing, sitting on his couch, watching mindless entertainment. Stuff blowing up and guys kicking ass and taking numbers; that's what he wanted to see. That would take this tension away. He had just popped a pizza out of the freezer into the oven when someone knocked on the door. It was Castiel. Well, he thought, as he slipped his hand into the professor's trousers: sex might also do the trick.

As October passed, Dean discovered he needed to get rid of a lot of tension and Castiel was usually right there to help him with it. It was a clear violation of the rules; them having sex more than once. Luckily, it was only sex. They hardly talked, which didn't seem strange to Dean, because what did a fireman and a university professor have to discuss? Yet, the fact that it was all about sex was starting to bother Dean and it wasn't supposed to. He liked when it was only about sex.

Their current situation wasn't entirely Castiel's fault. Dean was usually the one initiating the sex and whenever Castiel tried to have a conversation Dean shot him down unceremoniously. It was driving him crazy. How could he want something when every time Castiel tried to give it to him he refused it? It was November when he decided to end it before he got in too deep. A little voice in the back of his head was screaming that it was too late for that, that he had long since passed that station, but he ignored it.

They were lying on Dean's bed. They always had sex in his apartment. Castiel had invited him over to his place, but Dean never took him up on his offers. Castiel also never spend the night at Dean's. Whenever they were on the verge of falling asleep, Dean hinted at some urgent appointment in the morning and Castiel didn't object; he left. So, their whole relationship was based on sex and that meant that it didn't matter if Dean broke it off. There was hardly anything to break off. Relationship was even too big a word. Still, Dean braced himself as he was about to end their fling or whatever it was.

'I'm going to sleep over tonight,' Castiel said, before Dean could speak. His fingers were caressing Dean's naked back, drawing ever expanding circles. First with his nails, then with his fingertips and now with his nails again. Dean was looking at Castiel through his eye lashes, his head almost buried in a pillow. One night wouldn't matter, he thought. It was still just sex, after all. Just one night. It might even be nice. To only have to roll over if he wanted to have sex. To have someone sleeping next to him. To have the other side of the bed be occupied and warm.

'And we're not going to have sex,' Castiel added. Dean turned around and Castiel simply started to stroke Dean's abdomen.

'What?' Dean asked, perplexed.

'Tonight I'm literally sleeping over and tomorrow we're going on a date,' Castiel continued, as if Dean hadn't spoken. Sometimes his fingertips barely brushed Dean's skin; they were like feathery kisses or butterfly wings. Then suddenly they would drag across Dean's skin, leaving first white and then red marks. The alternating soft and hard touches made Dean close his eyes and sigh.

'Ok,' he answered, dreamily. The fingers left his stomach and he was waiting for them to start somewhere else, but they didn't return to any part of his body. When Dean opened his eyes, he saw that Castiel had taken a book and his reading glasses out of his trench coat. That coat was like the bag of Mary fucking Poppins; Dean wouldn't be surprised if Castiel pulled a lamp out of it. When Castiel put on the glasses and opened the book, Dean sat up straight.

'You're joking right?'

'No. Completely serious,' Castiel said as he regarded Dean over the top of his glasses. After a short glance, he focused his attention on the book in his lap again. After a couple of seconds, he turned the page. Dean simply didn't know what to say. This was such a waste. They were both naked; it was almost illegal not to have sex.

'That's not fair,' he protested.

'How so?' Castiel asked, without looking up.

'You're _trying_ to turn me on!' Dean claimed. He pointed at the really sexy glasses and Castiel's slender body on display before him. In response, Castiel put his glasses and the book on the nightstand. The professor reached out for the sheets and pulled them up over Dean and himself.

'A relationship is one long conversation, interspersed with sex. One of those I know we're good at. Now, you don't want to talk; that's fine, but we're not having sex either,' Castiel explained and Dean wanted to push him out of the bed and out of his life. He wanted to yell that they didn't have a relationship and that he didn't want one. He wanted to say that if he never saw Castiel again that he wouldn't care one bit. Maybe he even wanted to hurt him for making him a liar if he'd said or done any of those things.

Instead he turned his back on Castiel and announced he was going to sleep. Immediately, Castiel switched off the lamp on the nightstand and they were bathed in darkness. One warm arm was slung over Dean's shoulder and a chest pressed against his back. Without saying a word, Dean took the hand and cradled it in his own hands. He had imagined this moment and had thought the sound of someone else breathing would be annoying, but it was comforting. As he started to drift off, he realised with a slight pang of panic that he felt loved.


	6. Peace of mind

**Chapter 6: Peace of mind**

The next evening, like Castiel had ordained it, they went out on a date. Dean was feeling a little bit uncomfortable since he couldn't even remember the last time he had gone out on a date. His clothes were not suitable for these sorts of occasions. Finally, he settled on a reasonably clean jacket and a recently bought pair of jeans. Castiel came to pick him up. The trench coat was gone. He had on dark jeans and a dark blue sweater that brought out the blue of his eyes. Dean thought he looked hot. If it hadn't been against the new rules, he would have pulled him into the apartment and taken him up against the door. But _no_; they were not having sex.

'You look very handsome,' Castiel said and Dean was embarrassed to discover that he was actually blushing after receiving the compliment.

'Thank you. You too,' he mumbled, as he locked up his apartment behind him. They drove to the restaurant in Castiel's car, which Dean realised he hadn't seen before. It was one of those environmentally friendly, but boring cars. A silver Lexus. There was nothing macho or aesthetically pleasing about the car, so it was almost the opposite of the Impala. To make things even worse, the radio was tuned into an easy listening station. It was the sort of thing that Dean imagined Sam would enjoy listening to. _Sam._Nonetheless, Dean realised it didn't matter.

It didn't change the way he felt about Castiel at all. Castiel parked in front of the Palo Alto Creamery Fountain and Grill and suddenly Dean felt overdressed. As they stepped out of the car, Dean felt a familiar anger rising in him. It was one thing that Dean was aware of the enormous difference between himself and Castiel, but it was quite another to have Castiel rub his nose in it. He paused in front of the door and Castiel bumped into him.

'Didn't think someone like me would feel comfortable in a real restaurant, huh?' Dean said and the scorn in his voice was unmistakable. The other man blinked rapidly and looked confused.

'Someone like you?' he asked. Dean crossed him arms and didn't answer. Yeah, like me, he thought. A fireman, someone who didn't even finish secondary school. Look at the professor slumming it with the blue collar worker. It felt like charity. Still confounded, Castiel scratched his neck.

'I don't like fancy restaurants. You pay exorbitant amounts of money to have people watch you eat. If you put down your fork in the wrong place everyone frowns at you for the remainder of the evening. It makes me uncomfortable,' Castiel explained. Ridiculous, Dean thought; I'm behaving ridiculous. Ashamed, he held the door open for Castiel and they went in.

'For someone who gets paid to speak in front of entire classes, you're really awfully shy,' Dean joked as they sat down. Dean surveyed the diner. The place was filled with students and families with small kids eating. Why was he even complaining? It wasn't as if he was a fan of haute cuisine; he was much more of a burgers and fries guy. And, despite everything Dean thought about himself, he knew Castiel didn't think that going out with Dean was settling.

'There are not a lot of people in my courses. Fifteen at the most,' Castiel answered, self deprecating and then he flashed a bright smile at Dean, 'And I love the BBQ bacon cheeseburgers they have here.'

They ordered two BBQ bacon cheeseburgers each and two chocolate milkshakes. The service was quick and friendly and Dean had to confess he did feel comfortable. Here, he wasn't out of place and surprisingly, Castiel wasn't either. He made fun of Castiel's music taste and Castiel mocked him right back for listening to Led Zeppelin.

'You're like the poster boy for male heterosexuality with the muscle car and the fixation on hard rock.'

'Except I sleep with men.'

'Yes, there's that,' Castiel grinned and sucked on his milkshake straw. That was strangely arousing and Dean had to look away. There are kids around, he admonished himself. The diner was hardly the place for a quickie in the bathroom. Also, he kept forgetting they were not having sex. However, they were talking now. This was a conversation, so now the sex was back on, right?

He was feeling pretty good, despite the fact that it was November. November was not a good month and neither was December. It made him think of that first Christmas without her that they didn't celebrate and of the little glass statue he had painted in kindergarten and hidden in the closet until her birthday. It made him think of holding Sam and screaming. Think about something else.

'So metaphysics, I have no idea what the hell that is,' he admitted as he started on the second burger.

'It's hard to explain. It is concerned with being and existence and time and space and free will. Many call it a pseudoscience,' Castiel said and he slurped up the last drops left of his milkshake. Chewing frantically, Dean shoved the food to the left of his mouth with his tongue, so he could speak without showering the table with bits of burger.

'Pseudo?'

'Not really science, pretending to be scientific. It's because we don't provide a lot of answers, we're mostly there to ask questions. And the questions are not even concerned with tangible concepts; it's all about the abstract,' Castiel explained and Dean swallowed his bite.

'That sounds...interesting, but vague,' he finally said and Castiel laughed. They looked at each other across the table and Castiel briefly stroked Dean's hand.

'The best things in life usually are,' he remarked and he smiled at Dean before biting such a huge chunk out of his burger that sauce dripped down his chin. Shaking his head in mock disapproval, Dean got up to get some paper napkins and handed them to him.

'I like that. Asking questions is important, I think,' Dean said and he took a modest bite to show Castiel how it was done. It was nice to not be the sloppiest eater at the table for once. Dean could see now why Sam enjoyed the little victory of educating others with your superior eating skills. Not that Dean didn't enjoy the other side too. He loved to taunt Sam and always took full advantage of their dinners to do just that. Suddenly, Dean felt he was forgetting something important.

'I agree,' Castiel said after he had managed to swallow most of the burger and wiped the sauce away.

'You would. Otherwise you're out of a job,' Dean accused and Castiel laughed again. Sometimes the answers hardly seem to matter, Dean thought. Like how Dean wanted to know more about Castiel, but the information he gained was almost immaterial. It was just about being prepared to ask the questions and getting to know each other better. They ate the rest of their meal in silence until the time came to order desserts.

'What have you got?' Dean asked the waiter.

'We've got all sorts of pie, ice cream...' the waiter started, but Dean interrupted him.

'You had me at pie,' he said and he ordered apple pie for the both of them. With his eyebrows raised, Castiel looked at him and asked him what he was doing ordering for him. Dean simply answered that since Castiel had decided they were not going to have sex, Dean was now deciding that they were going to eat pie. The professor leaned forward, until his lips were almost touching Dean's ear and Dean felt a delicious shiver run down his spine.

'We might be able to work something out. At my apartment,' he whispered and leaned back with a satisfied smile on his face. Castiel's apartment, Dean's apartment, a dumpster, right there on the table; Dean would have said yes to all of those. They both finished their pie in record time and outside of the restaurant in plain view of everyone Dean shoved Castiel against the car and kissed him hard. Public displays of affection were not Dean's forte, but he couldn't help himself.

'Professor Novak?' someone asked and the voice sounded eerily familiar. Dean stepped away from Castiel and Castiel made a gesture as if he was going to adjust his tie. The move amused Dean to no end, because Castiel wasn't wearing a tie.

'Ah Richard, how do you do?' Castiel said in a hilariously composed voice, like they hadn't just been dry humping each other. His face assumed a bland expression as he faced Richard the douche bag. Richard looked from Castiel to Dean and back again and mumbled that he was fine.

'Don't worry about your essay; I've looked at it and it's a pass,' Castiel remarked and then he opened the door and got in the driver's side of the vehicle. Dean had a huge smirk on his face as he rounded the car and got in on the other side. As they drove way, Dean waved at the still stunned looking Richard, but something was nagging at the back of his mind. Richard, Sam, dinner. Fuck, it was Friday!

'Cas, we've gotta go to Sam. It's Friday. I always have dinner with Sam and Jess on Friday. I completely forgot,' Dean stammered.

'I'll drop you off,' Castiel said and Dean looked at him. This beautiful man next to him, who didn't take no for an answer and actually wanted to be part of Dean's life. It was time Dean started to let him in.

'You can come, if you want to. I mean, we obviously won't eat much, but it'll be fun,' Dean suggested and Castiel smiled at him. Dean smiled too. The whole way over to Sam's they did nothing except smile at each other like a couple of idiots. Or just a couple.

(***)

It took another week before Dean got to see Castiel's apartment. It was a mess. Books were everywhere: in neat stacks, in impossibly high and wobbly stacks, wedged between the fridge and the counter, strewn across the coffee table, taking possession of a lazy chair like a large, disobedient dog.

'But you're so tidy!' Dean exclaimed. It was true. The only thing that was ever out of place with Castiel was his unruly hair. Other than that he was always draping his clothes over chairs or folding them. His appearance was meticulously crafted. His Lexus smelled and looked as if it had just come from the car factory. He was forever straightening the painting above Dean's bed; the one Jess had given him. Thus, this was quite a surprise.

'It's like an episode of _Hoarders_,' Dean mumbled and Castiel chuckled. Most of the spines had titles like _A Brief History of Time_ and _Magic, Witchcraft and Religion: An Anthropological Study of the Supernatural_, but Dean could detect a stack of Harry Potter novels too and a lone Twilight copy.

'Research,' Castiel muttered embarrassed and he shoved the copy of Twilight underneath some magazines, but Dean noticed he didn't try to hide Harry. The bedroom wasn't much better. Books were balanced against the walls and there was no room on either of the nightstands for an alarm clock or a lamp or anything really, because books were already almost falling off.

'At least the bed is free,' Dean said and he pulled Castiel into a kiss. Dean discovered that he liked being in a relationship. He liked going out to eat with Castiel, he liked having Friday night dinners at Jess and Sam with his boyfriend, he liked talking until deep in the night. Who'd have thought? It was just hard to understand why Castiel had chosen him to share those things with.

(***)

One morning in early December.

They rolled away from each other, still panting. Dean was yearning for a cigarette, so he took some of his gum out of the drawer in Castiel's nightstand and popped it into his mouth. There was even a tiny alarm clock now. They split their time between their apartments and Dean had managed to convince Castiel that some people didn't automatically wake up at seven a.m. and that if he wanted Dean to sleep over, he needed to clear some room on the nightstand and invest in an alarm clock. It was a little after eight and Dean needed to get ready for work, but he didn't feel like it. He just wanted to lie in bed a little longer.

Suddenly, Castiel leaned over and kissed him feverishly. It was like the prelude to another round and as much as Dean wanted to; they really didn't have time for that. Instead of making any attempt at that, however, Castiel dropped back onto his pillow and chewed slowly. Dean must have had a clear expression on his face that indicated how he was feeling, which was; what the hell?

'I wanted your gum,' Castiel casually said and he chewed some more. Dean burst out laughing as he realised his gum was indeed gone, but then he narrowed his eyes at the other man. He could feel himself turning serious and gearing up to ask a question that he had wanted to ask for some time, but hadn't dared to ask.

'What are you doing with me?' Dean asked. He got out of bed and started to get dressed. Castiel flopped over onto his stomach and looked at him, while he pulled up his boxers.

'What do you mean?'

'You're handsome and intelligent and nice and funny. Half the time I have no idea what the hell you're talking about,' Dean said. Deftly, he fished his trousers out of a pile of books without upsetting the organised disorder and put them on too. Castiel was still watching with interest, though his forehead had wrinkled as he chewed thoughtfully.

'I don't know what you're talking about right now,' Castiel admitted, as he leaned over the side of the bed to scoop up Dean's cable knit sweater and threw it to Dean.

'You're wonderful and brilliant and I'm just a dumb jock,' Dean clarified as he struggled to put on his sweater. He was almost relieved when his head got stuck, because now he didn't have to see the look on Castiel's face when the other man heard what he said. However, when he finally got his head through the hole it was intended for Castiel was standing right in front of him, still gloriously naked.

'Dean, you are the one who's amazing. This reverence you have for my perceived intelligence and my profession is completely unfounded. I'm not brilliant; I just know a lot about a completely irrelevant and murky field of studies. If I stopped teaching tomorrow a few of my students would be disappointed. Your job is important. I dare say you have saved quite a few lives. It is dangerous and hard. When I look at you what I see is as far removed from a dumb jock as it could be. I see a hero.'

The earnest look on Castiel's face was killing Dean. The professor admired the fireman and not just his abs either. It was like bizarro world, Dean thought. He wanted to say something to deflect the praise.

'It's not as noble as you think. Someone I love died in a fire,' Dean objected and he was shocked at his own words. Never before had he brought that up with anyone but Jess or Sam. He didn't even talk about it with Bobby. And with Jess and Sam, he strenuously tried to avoid the topic. Castiel moved his fingers smoothly down Dean's sweater clad shoulder. The touch was oddly comforting.

'Nope, still a hero,' Castiel said and he smiled that special smile of his. The smile that Dean felt was reserved only for him. It made his stomach perform back flips and somersaults.

'I think you've got 9/11 syndrome,' Dean joked, but the joke fell flat. The alarm went off, but they both ignored it. Castiel took Dean into his arms and kissed him. The gum was returned to its rightful owner.

'I think I love you. No, that's not true. I know I love you,' Castiel stated and all Dean could think of to say, after he had briefly considered 'thank you,' was that he had to go. On his way to work he cursed himself for his inadequate response. He played some Metallica, but it didn't manage to calm him down. It started out as a quiet day at the station. One lady's cat got stuck in the sewer and Dean managed to get it out. The rest of the day they watched TV and goofed around until five p.m. when they were called out to a residential fire.

As they approached the scene Dean could see there was little left to do but make sure the fire didn't spread to surrounding houses. In the crowd near the building, two boys around the age of ten were standing, unsupervised and Dean felt his heart muscles contract violently. He went up to them and asked if there was someone still inside. The slightly taller boy was holding a rabbit that was frantically trying to escape. The boy's arms were bloody with scratches, but he didn't seem to notice. They were both intently staring at the house.

Behind Dean, the other firemen broke the windows of some jerk's car, who had parked it in front of a fire hydrant and rolled out the hose. The crowd was told to stay back, but only a few people listened.

'Is there someone still in the house?' Dean asked again. The smaller boy glanced at him.

'Mom, but she is coming out again soon,' he said and returned to staring at the front door.

'How long ago?'

Reverting to the behaviour of a much younger kid, the boy held up two hands. Ten fingers. Fuck, ten minutes, Dean thought. He also thought, out _again_?

'She is getting Pip; she told us to wait,' the boy said.

'Pip?' Dean breathed and he looked at the house. It was an old house, which meant it was mostly constructed of wood. Wooden beams, wooden panels, wooden floors. Everything burned brightly in the early evening light. If their mother was in there he didn't think she was coming out and neither was Pip. The taller boy now became aware of Dean's presence and raised the rabbit in his arms.

'This is Gladys,' the boy said, as if that answered Dean's question and it kind of did. Gladys and the Pips; Gladys and Pip, so Pip was probably another rabbit. Who the hell would go back into a burning house for a rabbit? People didn't understand fire; that was the problem. It devoured everything in its way and it was so fucking unbelievably fast. For some reason people never really thought that fire spread that quickly and that they might die in one. In the rare circumstances that the thought of dying occurred to them it was written off as ridiculous, because it was beyond their grasp. They didn't understand it: thus, it was impossible.

'Will someone fucking take care of these kids?' he screamed at the gathered neighbours and someone came up and took them away from the fire. As he went up to the fire chief, he fastened his helmet. Williams, Dean's partner, was standing nearby. Now that he was no longer straining to listen to the boys, the roar of the fire suddenly sounded very loud. It raged like a storm.

'Their mother is in there,' Dean yelled at the chief. It was hard to drown out the combined noises of the fire, the jets of water cascading down the side of the building and the wailing of the sirens. Williams came closer.

'You wanna go in? Williams? Winchester?' the chief asked. The three of them looked at the house. It had started to sway like one of Castiel's wobbly stacks of books. It was useless. Utterly useless. Going in would be suicide. Williams shook his head. The chief looked at Dean. If they were going in it would have to be the two of them and Williams was clearly not keen on the idea.

'She went in ten minutes ago,' Dean said. He knew what that meant. They all did. It wasn't even the fire, or rather; he _hoped_ it hadn't been the fire that got her. It was most likely the lack of oxygen or carbon monoxide poisoning that got her. She was dead. And Pip too, unless he had managed to escape.

'It's too dangerous,' the chief decided, but still he looked at Dean. Dean nodded, to indicate that he understood and that he wasn't going to do anything stupid. Right on cue, the roof caved in. There was no human sound from inside, which was supposed to be good. In a fire, the rule was that you didn't want to die at the hand of the flames. Choking was actually the better death and Dean agreed, but the silence always got to him. Like the silence of the lambs. If they were screaming they were still alive; if they were silent it was all over.

Williams and Dean joined their colleagues at the hoses. They couldn't get close to the house, because the fire was blazing too hot. After half an hour the house fell apart under the pressure of the water beating down on it. There would be an inquiry, Dean knew, about the cause of the fire. Maybe there would also be an autopsy on what was left of her to determine how she had died. It would be right up John's alley. As they drove away, he could see the kids behind one of the windows of a house across the street. They were still watching.

On the way back to the station, Dean kept thinking about those two boys, waiting for their mother to come out and she never did. If he went home Dean knew Castiel would see that something was wrong and want to talk about it, but he didn't want to. He wouldn't be able to sleep at night. He wanted to slip into oblivion and the only way he knew how was to drink. To drink a lot. So, he left the Impala at the station and walked to the nearest bar. Here's to forgetting, he thought, as he drained his first scotch of many.


	7. 36 hours

**Chapter ****7: 36 hours**

Dean woke up. He lifted his head. He put his head back down. His head fucking hurt. Where was he? The room looked familiar. He carefully rolled onto his back and let his eyes rove around the room. That was Jess' painting; he was at home. Relieved, he sighed. His throat was damn dry. He had a week off; vacation days he needed to burn through before the end of the year or they'd be gone. The plan had been to spend most of that time with Castiel. Take him to visit Bobby, do some artsy, academic shit with Jess and Sam and have lots of sex. Try not to think about it being December, the month he hated most in the world after, possibly, November.

Then he remembered the two boys and it knocked the wind out of him. He'd gone drinking. One of Dean Winchester's infamous benders, but somehow this one's aftermath felt a little worse than the previous ones. Trying to grab the alarm, he knocked something of the nightstand. It landed with a soft thud on the carpet. The alarm clock said it was a little after eight a.m. The alarm clock also said it was Tuesday, which wasn't possible because he had gone to that bar on Sunday evening. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dean thought and tried to remember.

(***)

36 hours earlier. Sunday. A little after eight p.m.

That first scotch. The really extraordinarily crappy music they were playing in the bar. Indie chick music. Music from whiny women with names like Natalie, Patty, Brandi or Lizzie. Names that for some obscure reason all ended in a y-sound. Dean didn't care, though. He wasn't there for the ambiance, but for the alcohol. Slowly, as the booze warmed his body his memories smoothed out and his hurt slipped to the background.

After about five drinks, the two boys were gone. He was starting to feel better and took his time sipping his sixth scotch. The bar was filling with twenty something girls and boys. A football match was playing on the tiny TV hanging above the bar, but only a few guys seemed to be paying attention to it. The din in the place had gotten so loud that Dean couldn't hear the music anymore, which was fine with him.

He turned his barstool slightly and frowned at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He fashioned little stacks of coasters and thought about the stacks of books in Castiel's apartment. A small smile tugged at his lips as he remembered how Castiel had said he loved him. Ignoring Sam's voice in his head warning him about the dodgy hygiene of peanuts in bars, he took a couple from a nearby bowl and thought about what would happen to all those books of Castiel if they moved in together. Whoa, boy, he said to himself; you're getting ahead of yourself.

The football game seemed to have spiked new interest, because the cheers grew more plentiful and the silences in between them became more profound. _'You're covered in ashes, you're covered in rain,'_ the radio almost whispered, but he heard it nonetheless. Strangely, that didn't make him think of fires or tragedies. It was soothing even. In between the hoots and curses, Dean tried to listen to the song. He actually started to kind of like the music, which was a sure sign of his advanced state of drunkenness.

'_She's always there.'_ It was all so on exactly on the nose, yet it didn't bother him in the least. He thought about Castiel some more. The crowd roared and clapped. Why were they so excited? The game wasn't even on live; not at this time of night. Dean debated whether or not to order a seventh scotch and swirled the last of his drink in his mouth as the noise abated.

'_You're covered in ruins, you're covered in secrets.'_

It had been going according to plan. Price for forgetting: massive hangover in the morning, but then something had gone wrong. The shock was overwhelming when the female singer crooned _her_ name. Three times in a row.

Dean nearly choked on that last mouthful of scotch and the liquid burned in his throat. And then something horrible had happened: it came back up. Not the liquor. Hell, Dean wished it was just the liquor. The one memory he tried his hardest to repress. He didn't talk about that and he didn't think about that. As he sat there at the bar, coughing and spluttering, everything blended together.

The glass he was holding felt cool, like the glass statue, which was ridiculous, because nobody remembers what something they touched when they were four feels like. Plus, the glass statue had been coarse, because he had done a hack job of painting it and the glass was smooth.

The air in the bar was hot, almost too hot to inhale. He felt like he was suffocating. Stop it, he told himself. Fucking stop it right now.

The two boys were back again, but this time they were a lot younger. One was just a baby.

'No. I'm not doing this,' he whispered at his reflection. His hands shook as he paid for his drinks and went outside. The air was crisp and cold, but that was not better. It was cold like that night 22 years ago. The first thing he thought of was getting behind the wheel of the Impala and driving this feeling away, but he was too drunk to drive. Instead, he began the long walk home. Eventually, he started to run.

(***)

His headache was only getting worse and he felt like he was going to vomit. He managed to get out of bed and stumbled over an empty bottle of whisky. It wobbled and bumped into another bottle on the carpet. Vodka. Also empty. Apparently, he'd gotten home and gone right on drinking. As he focused on his hands, because the room was spinning, he noticed that the skin covering the knuckles of his right hand was broken. Did he get into a fight?

His elbows felt sore too. That must have been some fight if he'd used them. He leaned against the wall, because the room kept going round and round. Swallowing was hard. Supported by the wall, he made it into the kitchen and took a glass from the cabinet above the fridge. He filled it to the brim with water and drank thirstily. On the kitchen counter, his cell lay, blinking.

Its screen was cracked, but it was still working. Around thirty or so missed calls flickered at him. Then the phone rang and Dean dropped the glass. The bit of water that had been left in it splashed against his bare feet.

'Fuck!' he cursed loudly. 'Castiel,' the display read. Dean pushed the call away, feeling guilty as hell. Bile rose in his throat. Quickly but cautiously, trying to avoid the shards of glass, he made his way to the bathroom.

(***)

30 hours earlier. Monday. Around 2 a.m.

Alcohol and anger got him lost. He thought about calling a cab, but his cell fell when he took it out of his pocket. There was a spider web of tiny cracks on the screen when he picked it up. Two missed calls. He didn't know where he was, he didn't know whether he had enough money and he didn't have the number of a cab company in his phone. Lesson for a future bender, he thought as he put his cell away again.

He felt dreadfully sober, yet he kept tripping. Several times he had to break his fall with his elbows, because he simply did not get his hands up fast enough. Memories of that night kept flooding his mind. In an alley, in what looked like a bad neighbourhood, he thought he could smell a burning nursery. Baby oil and talcum powder and a flowery perfume surrounded by acrid smoke. He let out a primal scream of fury and punched the wall until he didn't smell it anymore.

Eventually, by a combination of reading street signs and pure luck Dean found his apartment. As he closed the door behind him, the memories swamped him. Sammy crying. That peculiar crackling sound. He went straight for the liquor cabinet and pulled out the first bottle he saw. Whisky. He unscrewed the top and raised the bottle to his mouth and drank. Nope, still there. Quickly, he brought the bottle to his lips again.

Never in his life had he wanted a cigarette as much as he wanted one now. His hands trembled as he took another sip and searched for his favourite Metallica album. He was going to play it so loud that he wouldn't be able to hear his thoughts. If that got him kicked out of his apartment he didn't give a shit. In his panic to find it, he smashed a lamp. When he realised he'd left the CD in the Impala he felt like crying. Instead, he seared his throat with ever bigger and faster swigs. The memories stayed.

So, he had kept drinking, hoping with every new gulp that this was the one that was going to wipe them away.

(***)

'You're not going to vomit. Deep breaths. The memory is gone now. Everything's fine,' Dean whispered to himself and he was glad to discover he was telling the truth on both accounts. The memory was gone and, thankfully, the feeling of nausea also passed.

He was on hands and knees in the living room, never having reached the bathroom. Man, was he in a bad state. The headache and the urge to vomit were nothing new, but he felt bad. Bad like he'd never felt bad before.

(***)

19 hours earlier. Monday. Around 1 p.m.

Dean located _Led Zeppelin II_ and decided it would do the trick just as good as Metallica. He forwarded to number seven and put _Ramble on_ on repeat. By now he was drinking vodka. He'd put the empty bottle of whisky on the nightstand and was lying on the bed. The music streamed from the speakers and he couldn't hear anything else. Unfortunately, it didn't drive away the feelings. The smoke stinging his eyes. The heat coming off of everything. The lawn underneath his feet.

(***)

14 hours earlier. Monday. Around 6 p.m.

Someone knocked on the door, but he didn't hear it. His head was hanging over the edge over the bed and he liked the feeling of being weightless. _Ramble on_ was still on a loop.

'And to our health we drank a thousand times,' Dean said and laughed as he drank the last of the vodka. For the first time in years, he really listened to the song and he didn't appreciate what he heard.

'_Mine's a tale that can't be told, my freedom I hold dear.  
>How years ago in days of old, when magic filled the air.<br>T'was in the darkest depths of Mordor, I met a girl so fair.  
>But Gollum, and the evil one crept up and slipped away with her<em>_.'_

Her hair was blonde and she had been taken away. The feelings were gone, but occasionally there were still flashes of her smile.

'Nobody's fault but mine,' Dean whispered and the bottle rolled over the edge of the bed and unto the carpet.

'I'll never get over you. 22 years gone. When the levee breaks. Let's have a party,' Dean summed up. Good old Zepp, Dean thought. You can always count on them to have the answers. He forced himself upright and grabbed his wallet as he made for the door. Let's have a party indeed.

(***)

There was a sound in the bathroom. The tap was running. Calm down, Dean told himself, you probably just forgot to turn it off. Quietly, he walked to the bathroom and opened the door.

(***)

8 hours earlier. Monday/Tuesday. Around midnight.

Groping in the dark.

(***)

There was a man already in the bathroom. He was naked except for a towel around his waist. His back was to Dean: he was shaving. Dean's chest fluttered painfully at the sight. The man turned and smiled at him.

'Good morning, lover.'

Dean sprinted to the toilet bowl, lowered his head and emptied his stomach of its contents. The man was not Castiel.

(***)

Lyrics from the song in the bar are from the song _Mary_ by Patty Griffin.

'And to our health we drank a thousand times,' is a line from _Ramble on_ by Led Zeppelin.

_Nobody's fault but mine_, _I'll never get over you_, _Ten years gone_, _When the levee breaks_, and _Let's have a party_ are all songs by Led Zeppelin.


	8. A chance at happiness part 1

**Chapter 8: A chance at happiness**** (part 1)**

Suddenly, Dean realised he was still naked and he quickly put on his bathrobe. Despite not having eaten anything for almost two days, Dean felt that if he opened his mouth a week's worth of six course dinners would come out. For a moment he had thought the man was Richard. Anyone but Richard, he caught himself thinking, but it was just a random stranger. And it wasn't anyone but Richard that he wanted; it was no one but Castiel. What had he done?

'Did we have sex?' Dean asked. Maybe they hadn't had sex. He had been pretty wasted after all. The question was; did it matter? If you were in a serious, committed relationship you didn't bring some stranger home and slept in the same bed with him. One moment he had been thinking about living together with Castiel and the next he'd been with this other man. Dean was disgusted with himself.

'You were a little limp last night. But we could...' the man suggested and approached Dean. Dean took a huge step back.

'I'm sorry, but I'd appreciate it if you got dressed and left. Now,' he said and exited the bathroom. He sank into the couch and massaged his temples. The situation reminded him of one of those mythological stories that Castiel had once told him. One of the Greek ones. The one about the sirens. Luring men with their beauty and then letting them shipwreck.

That was exactly what he'd done with Castiel. The worst thing of it all was that Dean had known from the beginning. He'd told Jess that he was going to crush Castiel, but still he'd gone right ahead. Dean had tried his hand at a relationship and he had been happy while it lasted, but in the end he had failed miserably. Like he failed at pretty much everything always.

The man came out of the bathroom and went into the bedroom. Dean didn't so much as glance at him. He got all the information he wanted from the sound of his footsteps. The rustle of clothes being put on could be heard and then the sound of shoelaces being pulled tight and tied. The man entered the living room and Dean got up from the couch.

'I'm sorry about this,' Dean mumbled, but the man waved his apologies away.

'You've got a boyfriend or something?' he asked and Dean nodded. _Had_, he amended; after what I've done: had. Dean escorted the man to the door and opened it for him.

'We really didn't, you know. Merely some foreplay,' the man explained. Dean knew he was trying to make him feel better, despite essentially getting kicked out. However, every word just made him feel that much worse. The man tried to give him his phone number in case things with his boyfriend didn't work out, but Dean refused and shut the door. What the hell was he going to tell Castiel? Should he even tell him?

This was a _great_ sequence of events. Castiel told him he loved him and he responded by jumping into bed with another man. All he could think about was the look on Castiel's face if he told him. It twisted him up inside in a way only the memory he had been trying like hell to avoid could. It made him want to curl up on the floor and die. It was over, wasn't it?

Instead of drinking anything alcoholic within reach like he wanted to do – which wasn't an option anyway, because he'd drank everything in the apartment already; that's why he'd gone out again – he went into his bedroom and got a cardboard box from the closet. He put it on the bed. The two empty bottles he took to the kitchen and put on the table. Trying to postpone the inevitable, he went to the bathroom and showered. Then he shaved, ignoring the fact that the other guy had been doing the exact same thing, and brushed his teeth.

In the bedroom, he glanced past the cardboard box while he dressed. He unearthed the vacuum from the living room closet. First he picked up the largest pieces of the lamp and vacuumed up the rest and finally he did the same in the kitchen and mopped up the little puddle.

There wasn't much left to mop up; most of it had seeped into the wooden floor planks leaving a light watermark. Also, he was relatively sure that he shouldn't use the vacuum to get rid of glass. That probably wasn't good for it, but who the fuck cared? The vacuum was a gift from Sam and Dean had affectionately called it 'the gift that kept on sucking.' Almost literally dragging his feet, he returned to the bedroom and the cardboard box.

From the nightstand: _The Iliad_ and _The Odyssey_ bound together in one volume. Castiel said it was the epitome of epic, whatever the hell that meant. A pair of reading glasses. In the box.

From the closet: a blue tie that matched Castiel's eyes. In the box.

Under the bed: a beautiful chess set, in case they got bored of having sex, which hadn't happened as of yet. That was now never going to happen. In the box.

In the bathroom: SpongeBob Squarepants toothbrush and toothpaste, fancy razor, extra bathrobe. In the box.

From the medicine cabinet: baby aspirins, because Castiel couldn't swallow the bigger ones. That had led to many sexual innuendos. In the box.

In the kitchen on the table: copies of _Man: Visible and Invisible_ and _Thought Forms_, Dean's key to Castiel's apartment. In the box.

From the fridge: a big melon. Something to do with staying healthy and eating fruit once in a while. In the box.

In his CD collection: Frank Sinatra, Engelbert Humperdinck, (who calls their kid that?) James Taylor, and Barbra fucking Streisand. In the box.

Hidden in the couch: a tattered copy of _Eclipse_ by that hack Meyer. Sparkling vampires: whatever. Dean felt the brief urge to chuck it in the garbage, where it belonged, but reminded himself it was Castiel's property. In the box.

Next to the couch: a pair of woollen socks, unused, still balled up. It was usually Dean's job to keep Castiel's feet warm. In the box.

Leaning against the wall: a black umbrella. In the box.

On the coffee table: _What the Dog Saw_ by Malcolm Gladwell. This made Dean sad. He had wanted to know what the dog had seen and he'd actually considered reading it. Yes Dean, _that_ is what makes you sad about this exercise, he scoffed. In the box.

That was it. All the traces of Castiel having been in Dean's apartment, in his life, were in the box. He set the box down on the kitchen table. It was important to not get emotional now. He had done this. He had fucked this up. He didn't get to mourn anything. He hadn't lost Castiel; he'd practically thrown him away.

There was a soft, apologetic knock on the door. Dean glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a little before nine. Wow, barely an hour ago he hadn't known he had managed to destroy the best thing that had ever happened to him. He reluctantly opened the door.

'Are you alright? You look awful. I've called you a dozen times and I came by yesterday. You had music on, but you didn't answer the door,' Castiel rambled. Dean stepped aside to let him in. Castiel's eyes fell on the box and its contents. An expression crossed his face and Dean found it hard to stomach.

'What's wrong?' Castiel asked and Dean beckoned for him to sit down at the kitchen table. The professor's movements were very sharply defined; Dean could see every hesitation, every glance at the box, every question burning in his eyes in high definition. He wished he couldn't see it. He wished he was anywhere but here. His throat was dry again, so he asked Castiel whether he wanted something to drink. Castiel declined and Dean grabbed a glass and held it under the tap. As he stepped back he heard glass crunch under the soles of his shoes and for a second he allowed himself to wish he wasn't wearing shoes.

'If this is about me telling you I love you... You don't have to say it back. It was too soon and I'm sorry. I just wanted to be honest. Let's forget about that,' Castiel offered. His voice was unsure and soft. He kept looking at Dean's face, as if all the answers were right there. Dean wanted to laugh, because he didn't have any answers. With some difficulty, because his body hurt all over, he sat down opposite from Castiel.

'James,' he said and Castiel knew. Not once had he called him James. James was for students and the mailman and colleagues and vague acquaintances. James was for everyone else. It created the distance that was necessary for Dean to say what he had to say, but it was cruel.

'I don't think this is going to work out,' he continued. He sipped his water. Castiel stared at him.

'Just like that?' Castiel asked. It came out in a strange, strangled voice. No, of course not just like that. Not with _you_, Dean thought, but he simply nodded. Castiel kept staring at him and Dean felt he needed to explain. It was not a matter of not wanting to explain, but a matter of being unable to. How do you explain something you don't understand yourself?

Dean had the nerve to feel glad when Castiel got up and lifted the box. It would be perfectly alright if he hit me, Dean thought. Or threw things at me. Or smashed things. Castiel whispered that he'd send over Dean's things and walked to the door. Very quietly, he opened and closed it. And he left behind an emptiness in Dean's apartment that had never been there before.


	9. A chance at happiness part 2

**Chapter 9: A chance at happiness (part 2)**

After Castiel had left, Dean went into the bedroom. He dug deep until he found what he was looking for. The album cover was coated in dust. It was always there in the back of his closet and the back of his mind. A sort of self inflicted punishment. Maybe it was time he let go a little. Holding on to it had cost him too much. Though the thought of giving it up also hurt, he blew off the dust and wrapped the record on the kitchen table. He put it under the bed, in the square indent in the carpet left by Castiel's chess set.

(***)

Two uneventful weeks passed.

At one Friday night dinner Dean pretended that Castiel was too busy to come, but everything was fine. Jess was not convinced and Dean was afraid that sooner or later Sam would catch on too. They had packed Bobby, Ellen and Jo's presents – Dean sneaking in a present for his father, in case Bobby had his latest address; knowing it would upset Sam if he knew – and Dean was finally forced to confess that it was over with Castiel when Jess asked whether he knew what Castiel would like to get for Christmas.

That second Friday night when she asked the question, they were busy wrapping presents in the living room at Jess and Sam's place. Dean had feigned falling for Sam's puppy eyes when asked to help after dinner, but the truth was that he didn't want to go home yet.

The floor was covered in ten different rolls of wrapping paper, three rolls of tape, name cards, lists, gifts, other assorted wrapping necessities, and three pairs of scissors. They really needed only one pair, because the tasks were divided: Sam got the right gift and cut the paper, Jess wrapped the gift and crossed out the proper name on the list and Dean tied the name card around the present. Yet, when either Jess or he needed to use the scissors, Sam got very snippy, so as a precaution they all had their own pair. To prevent a bloodbath.

'We broke up,' Dean admitted. Nothing could be heard for a full minute. Not the rustling of wrapping paper, not the sound of scissors ripping through paper, not even the sound of the tearing off of strips of tape. Sam and Jess exchanged a look fraught with meaning. They had already known, Dean realised in that moment. They had just been waiting for him to tell them. Wasn't that fucking wonderful?

'Why? He was crazy about you. Still is. He keeps asking me how you're doing,' Sam said. Dean pretended to struggle with a stubborn piece of tape and then started to really struggle with it when it wouldn't comply; eventually simply crunching it into a tiny ball and throwing it on the floor.

'I cheated on him,' he mumbled, staring at the presents strewn across the carpet. How many people did they know anyway? There were big presents for Jessica's parents and three sisters and two brothers. Smaller presents for Sam and Jess' friends and Jess' unending supply of uncles and aunts and cousins. The smallest trinkets were for their study buddies, douchy squash partners and other acquaintances.

'Dean, you are such an asshole,' Sam stated and Jess nudged Sam with her foot, though she didn't seem to entirely disagree.

'I know,' he said and he hated the way he sounded. It was all so self pitying, so little old me, so emo. It was much more Sam than it was him. He briefly considered stabbing himself with the scissors, but they looked kind of dull. Also, that would really be emo.

'Well, have you tried _not _being an asshole?' Sam asked and Dean flashed back to a particularly uncomfortable moment in one of the many temporary homes of the Winchester family. His dad had been sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper; Sam had been eating his breakfast cereal. Dean had wanted to say, 'pass me the milk, Sam,' but what had come out instead was, 'I'm gay.' The way his father had looked at him; Dean was not likely to ever forget that look. Soon after that the dinners with the priests were inflicted on Dean.

'You're reminding me of a talk I once had with dad,' he wryly replied. Jess handed another present to him and pointed out the appropriate name card. Stringing a ribbon through the annoying little hole in the card, he tied it around the present. That one sure as hell wasn't going to win any beauty prizes any time soon, but Jess put it on the pile of finished presents nonetheless. He suspected she would redo some of the crappier ones later.

'The 'have you tried not being gay' talk? Yeah, he was an asshole too,' Sam commented absentmindedly, as he was trying to locate the right gift. Jess crossed out another name on their long list.

'Don't call him that. He did the best he could. Maybe I'm just an asshole,' Dean said. There was that self pity again. Jess rolled her eyes at him to illustrate what she thought of that assessment.

'No. You're gay, but you're not an asshole,' Sam explained, while he cut a square of wrapping paper that even Dean could see was not big enough for the present he had selected. Jess elbowed Sam out of the way and took his scissors.

'Says the man who just called me an asshole,' Dean shot back, but Sam was too busy glaring at Jess to pay any attention to him. His brother reached around Jess to take her scissors, which Dean didn't think was very smart. Not while she was holding a weapon. Sam seemed to realise that when she threw him a murderous look. He backed away swiftly and faced Dean.

'You _behave _like an asshole; there's the difference,' Sam remarked and he sighed contentedly when Jess handed him back his scissors.

'I'm pretty sure I behave gay too. Or isn't fucking other men gay?' he asked. Sam blanched and Dean smirked. For all Sam's desperate attempt to hook him up, his brother had never been comfortable with the things that happened in the bedroom. Jess, on the other hand, didn't even blink as she started to wrap a fat and fluffy elephant.

'Yes, but if you stop having relations with men you would still be gay and if you stopped behaving like an asshole you wouldn't be an asshole.'

'Having relations,' Jess mouthed at Dean and they both grinned. Sam ignored them and pretended to concentrate on measuring another present; making sure that he would cut the right amount of paper now.

'So, I am what I am and not what I do,' Dean summarised and he adopted Sam's philosophical voice. It was slightly affected and hilariously pompous. Jess stifled a giggle and Sam glared at them both.

'You are annoying,' he huffed and this time the piece he cut was much too big and the cutting line was ragged. Irritated, Sam pointed his scissors at Dean in an accusing manner, as if to say it was his fault.

'I thought I was being existential,' Dean confessed innocently. He looked Jess' way, but she avoided his gaze and focused on her wrapping job. Her hands were shaking with silent laughter, though, and Sam didn't miss it.

'Well, it's annoying. Your shtick is really starting to wear thin,' Sam snapped. Jess stopped wrapping, while the two brothers stared at each other.

'I hope not,' Dean finally said and he glanced down at his crotch. For a second, Sam looked confused and then a disgusted expression appeared on his face.

'Ew no; _shtick_. The I can't help being an asshole-act,' Sam said and he opened his mouth to add something else, but Jess threw him a warning glance. Visibly constraining himself, Sam shut his mouth and dropped the subject. They continued to work in silence for a while. Dean wondered what Sam had been going to say.

'How do you think mom would have reacted?' Sam asked when they were done. This was something Sam did all the time; he threw in a vague question and then you had to know what he was referring to. Could be something they had talked about a couple of seconds ago or something he had mentioned a week ago. Time was of no essence to Sam. React to what?

'To me being gay?' Dean guessed and Sam nodded, 'I don't know. I like to think...better.'

Sam and Jess seemed surprised that he'd answered the question. To be honest, Dean was a bit surprised too. He didn't usually discuss his mother. Maybe now he was able to separate the good and the bad times. Not everything needed to remind him of that night. It only ruined his life because he allowed it to. Emo bastard that I am, he thought.

'Well, she hardly could have handled it worse than dad,' Sam joked. They got up from the carpet and Dean shook of the tape that was sticking to his trousers. Like bad luck, he thought, always sticking to me. Always knowing where to find me and beat me down. Mostly because I'm usually yelling in the middle of the street for it to come and run me over, he admitted. He excused himself and walked to the fridge to get a beer. Jess followed him.

'Why did you cheat?' she asked softly. Sometimes when she leaned against the counter in that nonchalant way of hers, with a half smile on her face, Dean seriously wondered why he wasn't at least bisexual. Jess was pretty awesome and undeniably hot. Sam might have crappy taste in men, but he had great taste in women. The beer in his hand shook lightly and he stopped thinking about his sexual orientation. It was what it was. Same as what had happened between Castiel and him.

'I don't know. I thought I had it, I guess,' he admitted as he unscrewed the top and took a long swig. The beer was nice and cold in his mouth, though he was not a fan of Sam's brand of beer. But a beer's a beer. Fuck, next I'm gonna think that 'life is life, nanananana,' he ridiculed himself.

'Happiness,' Jess breathed and it wasn't a question, yet he nodded. He leaned over, took another beer from the fridge and opened it before handing it to Jess. They clanked their bottles together.

'And it was as if I remembered that I couldn't have it, so I just screwed it up. Fucking stupid,' he explained and Jess threw him this look. _You think?_

'Sam's right, you know. You think you do, but you don't deserve to be this unhappy,' Jess said thoughtfully. And even now, two weeks after the fact, Dean wasn't in the mood for one of their praising sessions. He was funny and interesting and handsome and could be nice if he wanted to, but none of that had prevented him from obliterating the one chance at happiness that he'd had in 26 years, so he didn't want to hear it.

'Just leave it, Jess.'

(***)

The 24th of December.

They'd sent the presents to Bobby, Ellen and Jo – Sam pretending not to notice that the package was a little heavier than the last time he'd inspected it – and now it was Christmas evening. Dean was trying not to drink too much eggnog, mostly because the stuff was beyond gross, and trying not to think about Christmas in general. Not that first Christmas without her. Not what Christmas with Castiel might have been like or how he missed the guy so much that sometimes it physically hurt. Nope, none of that.

Sam was a stickler for tradition. Solid, non-Christian Christmas tradition. Yet, Sam was always the one who insisted on opening the presents on the night before Christmas and not the next morning. Maybe it was the fact that due to the eggnog they were usually hung over and not in a festive mood the next morning or maybe he liked having Dean right there: whatever the reason, it was time to open the presents.

A pair of socks, a new vacuum cleaner, a recently released Metallica album and a bottle of Dean's favourite scotch were Dean's presents. The maddeningly practical gifts were Sam's, but Jess maintained that all the gifts were from the both of them.

Jess got a naughty nurse uniform, – from Dean, which made Sam blush, though he did seem delighted with the possibilities – an ultimate collection of Schwarzenegger DVDs and a coupon for a two person beauty farm weekend. Dean knew she was going to drag Sam there, but he didn't mock him or anything. It was Christmas, after all.

The younger Winchester got two new law books, which he actually liked. Leave it to Sam to like a practical gift, Dean thought. From Jess and Dean together he got a proper watch, because he had none to subtly complained about the one he wore now, and a membership to the vegetable of the month club. Sam managed to look a little miffed at receiving that and punched Dean in the shoulder, but Dean knew he secretly liked it. Sam was dorky like that.

Next morning they would open the gifts from what was effectively their family (The Singers) and friends, but right now there was only one more thing to give. Nervous, Dean swallowed and took the present from under the tree. Sam beamed when he handed it to him.

'More?' he squeaked, immediately excited. Instead of tearing off the wrapping paper as Dean would have done, he slowly tugged at the tape and folded the paper open. The LP _Alive, she cried_ of the Doors was unveiled and Sam looked confused.

'This doesn't really suit your taste in music or mine,' Sam said in a puzzled voice. That was right, because it wasn't Dean's thing and neither was it Sam's.

'It's mom's.'

Suddenly, Sam held the record as if it was extremely breakable. He turned it over and stared at the list of songs on the back. It was as if he expected it to be signed by their mother. _Play it again, Sam. Love, mom._ Sentimental sucker, Dean thought, but he couldn't help enjoying the look on Sam's face. His brother looked at him with wonder.

'I thought everything either burned or got ruined by smoke or the extinguishing water,' Sam mumbled. That was certainly true for the house. The fire brigade has arrived much too late to rescue the house, let alone Mary. Dean for one hadn't been prepared to hold out hope for the rare times their father allowed them to look at the tiny picture of their mother he kept in his wallet, so he had taken matters into his own hands. That way, at least he had something of hers.

'It was in the trunk of the car. She'd bought it that day. Dad doesn't know I stole it,' Dean admitted. A look passed between Sam and Jess and Dean sincerely wished they were not going to get on his case for stealing. He'd done far worse things. Case in point: Castiel.

'Did you steal something else?' Jess gently asked and he shook his head. The significance of the question escaped him completely, until Sam, with a pained expression on his face, tried to hand the record back to him.

'Then I can't take it. It's the only thing...' Sam began, but Dean pushed the record away and interrupted him.

'I don't have a record player. It was just gathering dust. And I've at least got memories of her, you don't. Keep it,' he said and glanced at the record player. It belonged to Jess. She was the one who advocated vinyl over CDs and was forever pointing out the superior sound of LPs. Sam cradled the record in his arms like a baby.

'Thanks, Dean,' Sam whispered. He sounded choked up and Dean nodded. It was no big deal: just a record, but it felt like an immense relief. A weight of his shoulders. Dean poured everyone some more eggnog. He couldn't stay much longer; he had to work the next day. No vacation for firemen. With all those tangled up cables for the Christmas lights and candles in the windows, things tended to go wrong a little more than usual.

'You almost never talk about it. Not that night, but mom. What she was like,' Sam said, hesitantly. He handed the record to Jess and stared at Dean.

'She was just, you know, mom. She loved us and got mad at us, mostly me. It was nice to feel so safe and so...'

'...loved?' Sam finished. Dean was glad Sam was the one to say it, because at least now the status quo remained unchanged. Sam was still the girl of the family and Dean's manhood was intact. Though, that _was_ what he had felt like when their mother was alive: loved. Loved pretty much unconditionally; even when he'd gotten caught trying to put poison ivy in the mailbox, because the mailman always shooed him as if he was a dog. Even when he had lined the drive way with dinner plates and driven over them with his bike, breaking every last one of them.

Jess put on the LP and Dean had to admit he liked that clear, yet scratchy sound that it produced. He stayed for a bit of the first song, but left before the second one; _Light my fire._ Irony was a bitch.

(***)

A new year had come and gone. If Dean had been the type of person who made resolutions then around now the time would have arrived that he'd given them up again. His birthday was still a week away, but he was already dreading it. Sam was sure to throw him a surprise party. He was definitely acting conspicuous like hell around Dean, but Dean was praying that it was actually Jess' party that Sam was planning and not his.

'You want to come with me to pick an engagement ring?' Sam asked, before Dean had even properly opened the door. This was a nice surprise, because no matter how wary Dean was about commitment for himself; Jess and Sam made a pretty great couple. Sam entered and looked at the mess. Since Castiel was no longer around, Dean had started to leave things lying around more and more. He thought it was either because he was a huge slob or because he was trying to fill some kind of void; probably both.

'Because gay guys are jewellery experts?' Dean asked, as he closed the door. His brother rolled his eyes and, after relocating a pile of clothes, sat down on the couch.

'Clearly, we're not in Kansas anymore,' Sam deadpanned. His gaze swept over the dirty dishes in the kitchen, the crumpled stack of junk mail next to the door and the clothes strewn everywhere. Dean offered him a drink, but Sam declined.

'Don't quote musicals at me, Sam. I'm not _that_ kind of gay,' Dean retorted with his head in the fridge. There was a tomato somewhere in there and he knew that it was currently carrot month, so he was sure Sam would appreciate a change.

'You did know it was from a musical,' Sam said, triumphantly. The tomato was... sorry looking to say the least. Dean didn't even want to touch it, so he straightened up and shut the fridge.

'That's only because I'm a big fan of Judy Garland,' Dean replied. His voice had never sounded more bitingly sarcastic. Though, Dean couldn't help but wonder whether just knowing that Judy Garland even _existed_ didn't make him that kind of gay.

'Don't choke on your sarcasm there,' Sam advised, before turning serious, 'I'd like you to come, because this is an important moment in my life and I want you to be there with me.'

Dean's heart grew three sizes that day. Then it shrunk right back to its original size when Sam ruined it, by adding after a beat, '_And_ because gay guys are jewellery experts.'

(***)

Dean refers to the Opus song _Live is life_, with its chorus of 'Live is life, nanananana.' It actually kind of makes sense, and is a lot less lame, when you remind yourself that the song was recorded with a live audience singing along, but whenever (this) Dean hears it he always erroneously thinks: _life is life; that's deep. Man, what a lame chorus. _He can't seem to help it.

Another misquotation is 'Play it again, Sam' from _Casablanca_. Ilsa does say 'Play it once, Sam. For old time's sake,' but the moment the line is associated with has Rick just saying 'Play it.'

'We're not in Kansas anymore' is a quote from the musical _The wizard of Oz_ with Judy Garland.

The 'his heart grew three sizes that day' is a quote about the Grinch from book _How the Grinch stole Christmas! _by Dr. Seuss.


	10. Mary

**Chapter 10: Mary**

The 24th of January

The day was shaping up to be... not good. He'd waken up and reached out for Castiel until he had remembered the whole fuckup. That was not conducive to a good start of the day. Also not good for his mood; Sam leaving him frantic text messages about the time they would go out for dinner. Dean had already received eight of those and it wasn't 10 a.m. yet. How stupid did Sam think he was? Seven is not a particularly difficult time to remember.

Fuck, he was dreading that shit. At the station, Williams kept pestering him about what a youngster he was and the guys had gotten him a birthday cake. They had even sung, despite his loud protests. Dean felt beyond antsy. He kept pouring himself coffee and he wasn't thirsty. Luckily, it was decaf.

There were no big emergencies that day, which Dean was eternally grateful for. The stress of the impending _surprise_ party was wearing him down and he really wouldn't have been able to take a fire. Kitties in trees, prying open the car of an idiot drunk driver; that was fine. Next year he was going to lay down the law for Sam: no surprise parties ever. Not that his insufferable little brother would listen. Sam still thought that Dean was putting up an act and that he secretly liked those parties and nothing Dean said could convince him of the contrary.

A little before seven, Dean left his apartment and made the short walk over to Jess and Sam's. They were waiting for him outside. Jess looked wonderful, clothes-wise, but her face and body language indicated she felt otherwise. During the car ride to the restaurant a lot of things about Jess' mood became clear.

First of all, Sam was acting like a complete maniac. More so than usual, that is. Dean kind of understood, because Sam was going to propose to Jess after dinner at his surprise party. And Jess was way out of his league. Yet, she also loved Sam like crazy, so Dean didn't think Sam had anything to worry about. The cheerfulness of Sam was forced and painful, but he continued to laugh too much and talk too loud.

Secondly, apparently Sam had not given Jess her present and this was making Jess crabby as hell. The poor girl probably thought that Sam had forgotten about her in his fever to plan Dean's party. It was _Dean's_ party, because Sam always relegated Jess to the role of unpaid waitress, which she didn't appreciate. Seeing how it was also her birthday and all. The tension in the car got pretty bad, so Dean was relieved when they got out of the car.

That didn't last long. They were standing in front of the Palo Alto Creamery Fountain and Grill.

'You've got to be kidding me,' Dean muttered under his breath. With his track record, they would get stuck sitting in the same spot where he had been sitting with Castiel on their first date. Sam picked up on his discomfort.

'What? This seems like the kind of place Jess and you would like. Don't think I don't know you stuff your faces with junk food when I'm not there,' Sam said and he held the door open for Jess. Jess didn't even look at him as she entered. Yes, this was going to be a great evening.

(***)

Half an hour later.

'This is not good dinner conversation,' Dean protested. Could this day get any worse? He could literally think of only two moments in his life that had been worse. Finding out he had cheated on Castiel and breaking up with Castiel. Immediately, that familiar guilt suffused him, because hello! dead mother. She deserved a mention too. The topic at hand was the exact same dead mother and that night. Stop thinking 'dead mother,' Dean scolded himself.

'I don't mind,' Sam said and, turning to his pissed off girlfriend, 'Do you Jess?'

Jess curtly shook her head, managing to do that and simultaneously not acknowledge Sam's existence. It was beautiful to see. Dean wished he had her skill. If he could just block out Sam's voice and eat his meal that would be heavenly.

It was like Sam to push, but not about this. Dean always shot him down and Sam would miraculously leave it. For some reason, Dean was not so lucky this time and he knew Sam; his brother wouldn't stop until he'd given him what he wanted. Best to get it over with fast.

'I woke up. I went into the nursery and took you out of your crib. Then I went downstairs and called 911. We waited outside on the lawn.'

The information was provided in clipped tones and a monotonous voice. Dean did his best to keep it as unemotional as possible. It was just a thing that had happened a long time ago and had nothing to do with him. What the fuck was Sam thinking bringing this up on his birthday of all days?

'You left some things out,' Sam responded sarcastically. Dean glared at him. Dean's feet were tapping harder and harder against the table and he had to consciously stop them. He steadied his hands against the edge of the table, gripping tightly.

'I really don't want to talk about this,' Dean hissed. His teeth were clenching of their own accord. He needed a drink, a cigarette, Metallica: _something_.

'I'm withholding your pie until you do,' Sam smugly replied. He leaned back in his chair and Dean had to resist the urge to tip him over. Fuck you, Sam. For the first time since they had arrived at the diner, Jess spoke.

'Sam, maybe...'

'No, it's time he told me. Dad never talked about it either,' Sam insisted. He really wasn't scoring any points tonight. Chances of Jess accepting Sam's proposal were shrinking with the second.

'It's his birthday,' Jess objected and Dean shot her a thankful smile. They were both so angry, but Jess' anger was a lot subtler. It manifested itself in her menacing, prolonged silences and the slight disdain with which she regarded Sam.

'Consider it an early birthday gift for me,' Sam suggested. Do not cause your brother bodily harm, Dean warned himself. There are witnesses. You will go to jail. It was like a comedy reel was rolling his mind, but, honestly, Dean could now totally understand where Cain had been coming from.

'Sam,' Dean begged.

'Dean,' Sam coldly mimicked.

'Jess,' Dean pleaded.

'Talk,' Sam commanded. Maybe it was good. Talking was good. He would tell them and then it would be out there and not just in his head. It would be like one of those psycho babble healing moments that Sam liked so much. _Please, do not make me do this._ Dean sat up straight and calmly folded his napkin. The lighting in the diner seemed very bright.

'I woke up. Don't know why. The house smelled funny. I went to the closet and took out the glass statue I'd made for mom. Her birthday was still a month away and dad kept telling me I should leave it there, because sooner or later I was going to break it. Of course, I didn't listen. I looked at it for a while. I was pretty proud of it. After I put it back, I heard the sound. A strange crackling sound. I went out into the hallway. The air was hot.'

It was both easier and harder than he thought it would be, because he wasn't there. He was 27 and it was his birthday and he was sitting in a diner with Jess and Sam. Yet, the memory was vivid. He felt small and helpless and afraid, like he had done then. His hands shook, but it didn't bother him.

'Go on,' Sam whispered.

'The air in the hallway was shimmering, like it sometimes does in the summer. I went into the nursery. For some reason I tried to open the window, but I couldn't. You were sleeping and I clicked the railing down like mom had taught me and took you out of the crib. You kept right on sleeping. This is impossible, but I swear I could see the paint bubbling on the wall. The door to the master bedroom was giving off heat; I couldn't get close enough to touch the door handle. I should have tried.'

His throat constricted suddenly, as if his body didn't want him to continue. This was the first part where he imagined something else happening. If he allowed himself to think about that night, this was the first point where a sort of wish alternate universe thing took over. He'd try the door and open it and his mother would come out and everything would be alright. Jess looked at him with this sympathetic look in her eyes that was killing him, so he looked away.

'Dean,' she breathed, but he couldn't take the pity in his voice, so he barrelled right ahead.

'I shouted. 'Mom, mom.' You woke up and started crying. The sound behind the door was growing louder and my eyes were starting to hurt. I went into the hallway and to the other door. I had to stand even further away from it. Smoke was seeping from under it into the hallway. I screamed some more. You kept crying. I went downstairs and dialled 911. The number was next to the phone. A woman answered. I told her there was a fire, and then I hung up. I forgot to give our address.'

Who did that? Who forgot to give their address? He was an idiot. This was the second turning point. If he'd managed to stay clearheaded enough to give their address then perhaps the fire brigade would have arrived in time and their mother would have been saved. So many little things he could have done differently that would have changed the outcome of that night.

'You're doing fine,' Jess said, encouraging him to go on. She'd apparently decided that it was best to let him tell the whole story. Sam simply stared at him, mesmerised.

'Then I tried to go back upstairs, but it was too hot. The smoke stung my eyes and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. I yelled for her again at the bottom of the stairs, until my voice was hoarse and I couldn't yell anymore. You were still crying. I took you outside and waited on the lawn,' Dean finished and, after he had downed his drink, added, 'By the way, Sam, don't count on getting anything for your birthday now.'

His brother grinned and ordered another round of drinks. That made Dean feel a little more charitable towards Sam, but Jess wasn't impressed. She was the designated driver for the evening. That hadn't been so bad. Yes, I had to almost relive it, Dean thought, but it was also a relief. It was probably going to hit him later. Not at the party, Dean hoped.

Right now, he was anxious about the questions or comments Sam might have. Sam was very good at weaselling to the core of the issue and Dean didn't want the core exposed. In fact, if they could all just forget this conversation had ever taken place that would be perfect.

Sam kept blissfully silent throughout the rest of their meal. After several tries, Dean got Jess to defrost a little; after all, she wasn't mad at _him_. They joked around, but Dean felt Sam's eyes on him. Gauging for weak spots, he thought, cynically.

In the car on the way to the apartment, Sam kept up the not so covert glances. It was as Dean had feared: Sam was itching to talk about it. Not just talk, but analyse and go over and discuss and pick apart. If Dean didn't stop him, Sam would go into full psychology 101 mode, so when he opened his mouth Dean cut him off before he could say anything.

'Drop it, Sam.'

'It's good to talk about it,' Sam insisted and it rankled that this was exactly what Dean had said to make himself spill his guts. In a weird way, it made him resent Sam, for using his own bullshit against him. Dean caught a worried glance of Jess in the rear view mirror and he tried to smile at her. His face didn't cooperate.

'I've talked about it. Now it's done,' Dean insisted right back, trying to infuse his voice with a finality that he struggled to feel. Poor clueless bastard, he thought. With Sam opening up is never the end; it's the beginning.

'Well, maybe I'm not done talking about it,' Sam snapped, true to form.

'Dad doesn't talk about it either,' Dean said and he knew he had made a crucial tactical error the moment the words left his mouth. It was possibly the worst thing he could have said and he could see even the slightest mention of their father got Sam riled up.

'That's your defence? Seriously?' Sam asked. His voice was loud. Both their voices had steadily been growing louder and louder. Jess' shoulders tensed, Dean could see her grip the wheel a little tighter.

'If it works for...' Dean started, but Sam immediately interrupted him.

'But it doesn't work! He's even more screwed up about it than you are.'

Sam was yelling now. Good, angry yelling. Nine out of ten of their fights were about their father. About Dean's refusal to believe that John was not a saint. About Sam's reluctance to accept that John was not the devil. They'd not fought in front of Jess before, though. Sure, she'd witnessed some minor arguments, but nothing serious. Nothing about John. Nothing that involved the two of them almost trying to kill each other.

'I'm warning you. Stop it,' Dean growled. He nodded towards Jess, hoping that Sam would catch the hint and stop. The day had stopped simply being not good; it was turning into a full blown nightmare. Dean thought that he'd rather be at the party than here, which was an indication that things were going horribly wrong.

'No. He's obsessed with it. Fire, fire, fire; that's all he thinks about all the time. Faulty electricians, insurance companies that won't pay out after a fire, the odd pyro. He's made it his mission in life to sue them all and he's the world's worst dad because of it,' Sam yelled. It was true. That was what made it so hard to hear. Dean stared out of the window at the streetlights.

'Shut up,' he snarled.

'He dragged us across the entire country. We've not lived anywhere for more than a few months. We couldn't make friends; we had nothing. And he's still acting as if we don't even exist!' Sam continued. His voice was hoarse and it had reached that whiny crescendo that Dean hated. It made Dean hate Sam. He really wanted to smash Sam's face against the glass. His hands shook with rage. Not plain sorrow or that familiar combination of sadness and anger; just rage.

'Shut the fuck up!' he screamed as he faced Sam. The car swerved and pulled over. They stared at Jess.

'Get out,' she said, calmly. Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she looked at them. When they didn't move, she clacked her tongue impatiently and sighed.

'Yell at each other, slug it out: I don't care. Get out of the car right now or I _will_ hurt you,' she repeated. Neither of them doubted she would follow through on that threat, so they stepped out of the car. Before they'd properly closed the doors, the car sped away.

Dean thought they were going with the second of Jess' suggestions: he certainly felt like it. Hitting Sam. Wiping that smug expression off his brother's face. They stared at each other. Sam's face was splotched with red spots. It always got like that when he was angry; not an attractive sight. Dean's fingers curled into fists, so he turned around and started walking.

'Where are you going?'

'Home.'

'You can't, moron. There's a surprise party at the apartment,' Sam called out. Dean turned around. He was serious. He really expected Dean to come with him and party after all this.

'Yeah, I'm in the mood for a fucking party,' Dean retorted. Bobby would probably be there with Ellen and Jo. It wasn't their fault that Sam was a dick. Realising he kind of had to go, Dean groaned. At least he would get to see Jess spectacularly reject Sam. There was no way that she was going to marry him now. Not after everything they'd put her through this evening.

Reluctantly, Dean started to walk in the right direction and Sam fell into step next to him. The silence between them was oppressive. It was cold. Again like that night, but Dean was coping as well as he could. He could look at Sam and not see the baby he had been, which was a good feeling. Sam took a deep breath and Dean braced himself for what was about to come.

'Look, I know this thing with mom...'

Dean halted.

'This _thing_ with mom?' he asked, sarcasm lacing his words. As long as Sam insisted on bringing it up, he'd have to actually say it. This thing, that night; those were Dean's vague descriptions. It was his trauma, so he was allowed to be vague.

'Mom's death,' Sam said.

'I don't want to talk about it,' Dean replied. It was straight up déjà vu. Dean was even nearly starting to yell again. How many times did they have to go over this? They kept covering the same ground: Sam wanted to discuss it, Dean didn't. Sam grabbed his shoulder and Dean almost took a swing at him.

'Tough shit. You know what was the most important thing you said tonight? 'I should have tried.' Well, I should have forced you to talk about this much sooner. I knew that night had screwed you up, but I didn't realise how badly it had screwed you up,' Sam softly stated. The puppy eyes were out and Dean couldn't hit him when he looked like that, so he lowered his fist.

'This is not your fault, Sam. It's mine,' Dean whispered. The pavement was cracked in places and there was not sufficient light to illuminate them, Dean noted. Sam's fingers dug deeper into his shoulder and he forced Dean to look at him.

'No, it isn't. That's the point. I know you like to blame yourself for everything, but you were just a kid, Dean. It's time you start directing this guilt you're carrying around where it belongs. Like James. You didn't lose him in a fire; you fucked that up all on your own.'

That hurt. Even though it wasn't his name. It was Castiel. But there was no difference. The end of his relationship with Castiel and the death of his mother; both were Dean's fault. If he hadn't gotten drunk. If he hadn't gone out again. If he'd tried the door handle. If he'd given their address.

'I should...' Dean said.

'You were four! It was a miracle you woke up and managed to take me outside.'

'I should have...' he murmured.

'It was no one's fault. You've got to stop this self-flagellation,' Sam pushed. It was an uncharacteristic push, because it was so gentle. Dean's brother usually waltzed right over everything and anyone in his way. Dean shook off Sam's hand.

'Self what?' he asked.

'Stop beating yourself up over it. You've saved enough lives to make up for whatever you think you did wrong. For years you've been walking around with this chip on your shoulder thinking you don't deserve to be loved. Well, you do. I love you, Jess loves you, and James loves you. You have to let us,' Sam urged. The second mention of not-his name made Dean wince. He'd prefer if Sam stopped dragging him into it.

'I'm trying!' he shouted.

'Try harder!' Sam hollered back, before adding in a gentler tone, 'And Dean, so help me God, you're going into therapy.'

No, he really wasn't. Dean scoffed and resumed walking. Without wanting to, he pictured Castiel at the party. That hesitant smile, those hungry hands... His eyes, looking right through Dean, recognising every lie he told and loving him despite of them.

'I know I've got issues,' Dean admitted.

'Being aware of your issues and actually overcoming your issues are two very different things; a wise woman once said,' Sam said as he caught up with Dean.

'Jess?' Dean asked, and Sam smiled.

'No, Cristina Yang. From Grey's Anatomy?'

'Grey's Anatomy has nothing on Dr. Sexy M.D.'

'This only confirms your insanity. Therapy it is!'

'I'm not...' Dean protested, but Sam stopped him. Literally stopped him; Dean had nearly stepped in front of a speeding truck that had ignored the red light. After Dean had flipped the driver off, Sam fixed him with a stern gaze.

'Yes, you are. Or I'm never talking to you again,' Sam threatened, which wasn't even close to being as intimidating as Jess' threat.

'That might actually be a relief,' Dean half teased.

'Dean,' Sam whined.

'Yeah, yeah, I promise to get my head shrunk,' Dean agreed. If there was something left of him by the time they arrived at the apartment and if he survived the party then he'd gladly do therapy. 'What do you think of that, doctor? Does that make me a sexual deviant? A pervert as the common folks say? Should I describe again what I did to the professor? This time I'll be more graphic, alright?' The guy would run screaming from the room; Dean would make sure of that. They'd never get to his mommy and daddy issues.

'That was some speech,' Dean said.

'I have my moments,' Sam stated. His face displayed equal parts false modesty and genuine arrogance.

'I'm glad I got to witness one of them. The next one is scheduled at an eclipse, right? Or it comes by every 20 years, like a comet?' he joked and this earned him a playful jab in the shoulder from Sam. Hard to believe that a short while ago they had almost come to blows and now they were right as rain. It was a brotherly thing, Dean guessed.

It had pretty much been like this for as long as Dean could remember. He could hurl every imaginable insult at Sam that he could think of, he could hit him, kick him – and to his shame he had; at times almost beating his brother to a pulp – and push him away. Sam would take it all, not without a fight, and come right back. He was like blood on your shirt; there was no fucking way that Dean would ever get rid of him and Dean felt the same about Sam. Not that Sam had tested his limits as far as Dean had tested his. His brother was too nice to do that, though Dean was sure that at times Sam had wanted to.

They continued in silence for some time. Dean thought about Castiel. If he hadn't fucked it up could he have had that with Castiel? Unconditional love. Like Dean's mother had given him, like Sam gave him. To love Dean with his many shortcomings; would that have been possible? Dean wondered about that.

'Speaking of things that rarely happen. You think dad might come?' Sam asked and all Dean could think was: awkward transition.

'I don't know. 27 isn't exactly a milestone,' Dean answered. If Sam had invited Bobby then Bobby would have passed along the message to their father, provided Bobby had seen him or heard from him. And even if he hadn't; John knew where they lived, he knew it was Dean's birthday. Sam would probably not give him that much credit, but how do you forget your son's birthday? He didn't forget, Sam would say, he simply didn't care. Fuck, Dean hoped they weren't going to get into another argument over this.

'It shouldn't take a milestone for him to show up at his son's birthday,' Sam grumbled, but Dean suspected he kept a few more scathing comments to himself. Thankful, Dean tried to steer the conversation into a slightly different direction.

'Did you tell him that you were going to propose to Jess?'

It was a stupid question. Sam's relationship with their father alternated between nonexistent and severely strained on the few occasions they saw him.

'If I believed for even one second that he cared, I would have tried,' Sam admitted. Another silence followed and Dean couldn't help sighing with relief when he realised they wouldn't get into another fight. He'd lost count of their fights that evening. They rounded the corner of the apartment building when Sam stopped him. It annoyed Dean a bit. The party was right there; he just wanted to get it over with.

'Stop walking. I feel like I'm in an Aaron Sorkin production. Just, stand still for a second. Why don't you tell James what you did? There were extenuating circumstances,' Sam suggested. James, James, James. It was ridiculous what hearing not-his name did to him. He felt a pang of desire rush through him. To have back what he had lost, because it had been good. Good love. Not like those other guys who'd treated him like little more than a cheap lay.

'Like what?' Dean said, sounding disinterested. It had taken him years of practise to sound like that when his heart was racing and his insides were on fire.

'Like that woman who died in the fire after which you went incommunicado for two days. It was in the paper, with a nice picture of her sons. Yes, I can read. It doesn't take a genius to connect those dots. Just tell him about why you made that mistake. He might surprise you and forgive you.'

'Yeah right,' Dean scoffed. That was an extremely crappy reason for doing what he had done. So, not only would he reveal that he was a total asshole; he was also fucked up beyond all recognition. Quite a catch. Who _wouldn't_ want that?

'Dean, there's no reason to be this unhappy,' Sam protested and without looking at him, Dean began the short walk to the front of the building. He had about had it with Sam's protests and objections. It didn't change anything. Sam didn't think Mary's death was Dean's fault: well, whoopty fucking do. Dean still felt that it was his fault and he doubted a few sessions with some therapist were going to change that. Self-pity and self... – whatever it was that Sam had said – maintained over 22 years were hard to shake. Some might say impossible.

'You don't deny that you're unhappy,' Sam said, surprised. Big revelation there again.

'So? I was unhappy before I met him too. I got my chance and I fucked it up,' Dean snapped as they entered the building. They climbed the stairs. Sam held the door open for him.

'Haven't you heard of second chances?' he said, before the loud chanting began. Dean wanted to cover his ears and flee. Instead, he forced a smile to his face and looked around the room. Bobby was there and Jo and Ellen. They were clapping and singing; all three of them completely out of tune. Jess had managed to put on her game face. Pamela was there too, which was a nice surprise. Dean appreciated her harsh wit. Williams and a couple of other guys from the station were drinking more than they were singing. There was another man Dean knew. And suddenly Dean's smile was sincere and his heart skipped a beat.

Sam, you meddling bastard, he thought, but he couldn't be mad. He also couldn't stop smiling or thinking about second chances. Hesitantly, the man smiled at him. The man was Castiel.

(***)

One more chapter to go. **Chapter 11: and one thing Dean didn't lose: ...**


	11. and one thing he didn't lose: Good love

**Cha****pter 11: and one thing he didn't lose: Good love**

'Look people, I know that Dean's a jolly good fellow, but it's Jess' birthday too. My girl is turning 22,' Sam interrupted the singing. Dean didn't mind. The only one who could sing was Pamela and she was hardly audible over the combined ruckus over the others' attempts at singing. Dean was staring at Castiel, but he realised he was being rude and maybe needed to focus a little on his baby brother's proposal, so after a quick smile he turned away and zeroed in on Sam and Jess.

'Are you my girl?' Sam asked. Jess was obviously still mad and if Sam thought asking her in a room full of people would change that he was wrong. She merely raised her eyebrows and crossed her arms. Williams let out a nervous giggle.

'Because I'm your guy,' Sam declared. Someone in the back, Dean was pretty sure it was Jo, whispered that Sam was whipped. That led to another round of giggling from Williams. Jess seemed marginally appeased and waited for what Sam was about to say next.

'I've been thinking about doing this for a while now and even how scary you look now won't deter me. You're amazing and intelligent and beautiful and interesting. I don't think I'll ever get tired of talking to you. I'm sorry for not giving you a present earlier, but this one cleaned me out. I love you, Jess, and I want to marry you. Will you be me wife?' Sam asked as he got down on one knee and presented the ring to her. For ten agonising seconds – that's what they felt to Dean, so he couldn't even imagine what they must have felt like to Sam – Jess said nothing. Then her face broke out into a smile and she launched herself at Sam.

Covering his relieved face with kisses, she unearthed the ring from its box. Dean was glad to see that it received the nod of approval before she slipped it on her finger. Dean congratulated Jess and Sam and moved back into the small crowd, looking for Castiel. Behind him someone was rubbing against his ass. He looked around and was a bit disappointed to discover it was Pamela.

'Sexual intimidation,' he whispered to her. She threw up her hands in studied indignation.

'Blind woman's prerogative,' she said and added, 'I've sampled quite a few fine asses this way. Though your ex doesn't have much of an ass to speak of.'

'Do you know where he is? I don't see him.'

'Me neither.'

'That's hilarious. It really never gets old,' Dean replied and Pamela lightly slapped his cheek. And not the one on his face.

'He left your present on the kitchen table, then I felt him up a bit during the singing and I think he might have left during the proposal. I did hear the door close,' Pamela offered and Dean was already making his way to the door. Luckily, no one tried to stop him. He raced down the stairs and out of the building. There was no one there. Well, there were people there, but none of them was Castiel. Frantic, Dean looked around and saw a familiar trench coat round the building and disappear out of sight.

'Cas!' he yelled and started to run. It was embarrassing. He was not a gracious runner. Plus, he was tired. The fighting and the being forced to talk about his mother's death; everything had drained him of energy. He was panting by the time he reached the corner and leaned against the wall to catch his breath.

'Yes?' Castiel asked. Dean was startled to find him standing right in front of him. He signalled that he couldn't speak yet and if Castiel wouldn't mind waiting a second. Castiel looked summarily uninterested

'Sam invited me. I told him it wasn't a good idea, but he can be very persuasive,' Castiel apologised. No matter how hard he tried, some of that old shyness still shone through, especially when he explained that he'd already bought Dean the gift for Christmas, before... His voice trailed off and Dean felt his chest tighten. Eventually, he straightened up and looked at Castiel.

'I want to talk to you about something,' Dean began. Man, this was hard. There wasn't a way in which he could frame what he had to say so it wouldn't be a shock, so he just came out and said it.

'I cheated on you. Nothing really happened, I think, but not for lack of trying,' he admitted. After Dean had said it, he realised that it could be construed as kicking a man when he was down. As in, 'not only did I dump your ass without giving you any reason, I _also_ cheated on you before that; in your face!' and that wasn't how he meant it at all. Damn Sam for talking him into doing this. However, Castiel didn't seem hurt. His hands were deep in his pockets and he stared intensely at Dean, but there were no signs of pain. Maybe he's moved on, Dean thought, and he simply doesn't give a shit anymore.

'Why?' Castiel asked. Dean imagined he would question his students like that. In a detached, yet faintly interested manner. 'What was your motivation for choosing this particular topic?' he would say, and the student would falter under his scrutiny and professionalism. Dean had trouble trying to think straight. The question probably didn't refer to why nothing had really happened, but why something had almost happened in the first place.

'Because I was drunk,' Dean said.

'And why were you drunk?' Castiel responded, in that curiously removed tone of voice. It was not a voice Dean had heard before. Perhaps it was reserved for people who called him James. So, this was it. The big one. I can do this, Dean told himself; I already told Sam and Jess in excruciating detail. Just give him the cliff notes version.

'That evening a mother of two sons had died in a fire. My mother died in a fire too. It fucked me up,' Dean confessed. There was no pity in Castiel's eyes; for which Dean was grateful. There was only... Was 'underwhelmed' a word? Because that was what Castiel was: underwhelmed. Entirely unimpressed by Dean's difficult admission.

'Clearly,' he dryly replied.

'That's all you've got to say?' Dean asked, amazed.

'What did you expect me to say? Am I supposed to instantly forgive you, because you are fucked up? Everyone's fucked up, but most people try to deal with it,' Castiel snapped. He sounded angry, which was to be expected. Yet, he seemed angrier about Dean's mother dying in a fire than about Dean cheating on him. Or it was a combination of those two: Dean using his mother's death as an excuse for the cheating.

'What does that mean?' Dean demanded.

'My mother died giving birth to me. My father had already left her. I spent the first years of my life in an orphanage. When I was eight I went into foster care. My second mother beat me; the third was nice, but not able to take proper care of me. It wasn't until the fourth one that I found a family that loved me, that made me feel safe.'

'I'm sorry,' Dean muttered, embarrassed. That was worse than what had happened to him. Or maybe not worse, but also bad in a different way. He'd never asked about Castiel's parents or childhood. Not even after the lock picking. He had been too focused on his own issues, on steering the conversation away from his own parents, to think of asking about Castiel's. Fuck, he was an asshole. Castiel sighed, annoyed at Dean's apology.

'That's not... I'm not telling you this in a bid for your sympathy. I dealt with my past. I don't go around screwing people over, because, boo hoo, my childhood was hard,' Castiel harshly remarked.

'I tried...' Dean began, but Castiel interrupted him.

'No, you didn't. It got difficult and you took the easy way out. That's what you did,' Castiel said. He turned around to walk away, but Dean grabbed his arm. They stared at each other, until Dean let go.

'You're right. I'm not just saying that. Since we broke up, I've realised that I use it as an excuse. Everything bad that happens to me, everything I screw up; I trace it all back to that night. It's not healthy. I'm... I'm going into therapy,' Dean told him. At this, Castiel seemed less hostile towards Dean.

'You realise that you're going to have to talk about it then?'

'Yeah. I'm sorry about hurting you. You were pretty much the only good thing that ever happened to me,' Dean confessed. Castiel's face lit up and Dean smiled. They leaned closer and Dean kissed him. Dean thought it was supposed to be a goodbye kiss, but it didn't feel like one.

'Dean, you're a complete and utter asshole, but I love you. So, if you want one I'm willing to give you a second chance, but I'm warning you. This time it's going to be different. I can't not care if you go missing for almost two days. I can't shrug it off if you sleep with someone else. You have to open up and tell me when something is bothering you. I can't keep guessing. I won't.'

'Who _are_ you? You're like a fucking angel,' Dean said. He meant it. No one else could have put up with the shit Castiel had put up with and still love him. It reminded him of seeing Castiel before they properly met. At the fires. It still puzzled him why Castiel had been there.

'More like a stalker,' Castiel quipped, as if he'd read Dean's mind.

'You've told me something, now it's my time to tell you something. The first time I saw you, this was about two months before we met, and you were at a fire. I drove by on my way home from work and stopped. Disaster tourist, I'm aware. It was one of those new buildings. All glass and steel; the kind of thing you don't think could ever burn, but it did,' Castiel explained. He was more elaborate than usual. If there was something Dean appreciated about Castiel, and there where a whole lot of things, it was the other man's unfailing ability to get to the point, but this time Castiel appeared reluctant to broach the actual subject.

'Everyone was out of the building, I think. One girl was crying like the world was about to end and you went over to her. You asked her questions, asked her if she knew whether someone was still in the building. She said no. You asked her why she was crying then. She said she'd left her boyfriend's birthday gift in the apartment,' Castiel continued. Something sparked in Dean's memory.

'I remember her,' he said. She had been very tall and thin, like a reed in the wind. Long, blond hair waving in the wind. It was a painting. She had made a painting for her boyfriend and now it would be gone. It had reminded Dean of the glass statue and he had reacted like an idiot.

'You asked in which apartment and where it was and told what I assumed was your boss that she was crying about a dog and went back in before anyone could inform him that pets were strictly forbidden in the building. You came back out with the wrapped gift and she thanked you profusely. Afterwards, your boss berated you for a full five minutes. I remember thinking, who _is_ this guy?' Castiel finished. As he looked at Dean, Dean felt warm inside. He fought the feeling. This was long before they even met. He had been so blinded by the hotness that he had ignored the stalker aspects.

'So?'

'So, I fell a little bit in love with you that day. I drove over to fires in the hopes of seeing you again. Somehow you always looked so sad. I thought I could save you, but I was too shy to approach you,' Castiel admitted. Well, wasn't that convenient?

'And Sam just happened to invite you to the party where we met?' Dean asked, incredulity straining his voice.

'Yes. I swear I didn't know he was your brother. I didn't know your name; I didn't know where you lived. All I knew was that you were a fire fighter and that I'd developed an ill advised crush on a stranger,' Castiel persisted. It was a bit like fate, Dean thought. Not that he believed in crap like that. It was irony; the good kind. That one fire had taken away someone he loved and another fire had given him someone he loved. If they had met at the party, the professor and the fireman, without that glimpse into Dean's idiocy, would they have kissed? Would they have fallen in love? Dean didn't want to know.

'You wanna come up?' he asked and Castiel smiled and took his hand. The next moment Dean was shoved up against the wall and Castiel's tongue was in his mouth. The professor bit Dean's lips and Dean moaned. He could feel himself starting to harden, but Castiel pulled away abruptly.

'I missed this. I missed you,' Dean admitted and Castiel simply nodded, breathless. Their hands linked of their own accord and that felt better even than the kiss.

(***)

Two months later.

'I did some research on fires. On the web, because we all know how reliable the internet is, and I've talked to a few firemen. Last time, we did the word association game...' Dr. Summers began, but Dean shifted uncomfortably in his chair and interrupted her.

'That I hated,' he protested. Next thing he knew she was going to break out the inkblots and ask him what he saw in them. He still couldn't believe he was really sitting here. With an actual therapist, actually discussing his issues. The worst thing perhaps was that he liked Alex. He tried to keep calling her Dr. Summers, but it was difficult. Damn her agreeableness! She reminded him of Jess, though she was of Indian descent and had short cropped black hair. It was the feistiness; the zero tolerance for bullshit.

'...which you hated, but we did get the one interesting admission,' Alex agreed. Clearly, she thought his rude interjections were amusing. Trying to ruffle her feathers was like trying to wrestle with water: a hopeless endeavour.

'Depends on what you call interesting,' Dean huffed. In the first few sessions he had tried to derail her by describing his sexual activities, but she bore every sordid detail like a trooper. Throughout she had taken notes and afterwards, when he had asked her what she had written down, she had said some of the things he had mentioned were worth a try. That was when he knew he had liked her. However, Dean still wasn't going to go gently into that good night. That was Castiel's fault; dude had him reading poetry. _Poetry._

'I said 'mother' and without even thinking you said 'guilt,'' Alex said. Her notes were in front of her. Sometimes she pretended to consult them when Dean knew that she didn't really need them. It was a distancing technique she used. You're not my only client, it was meant to convey. I am not emotionally involved, it said. Dean appreciated the gesture, because it was hard enough having Castiel sit there in the corner listening to everything they discussed. Even though Dean was the one who from the very first session had asked Castiel to accompany him.

'So, I have been trying to discover whether you are guilty,' Alex said casually. Dean's gaze left Castiel and rested on her. He frowned.

'You have been trying to figure out whether my mother's death is my fault?' he asked, struggling to keep the shock out of his voice.

'Yes.'

'I don't even know what to say to that,' Dean stammered. He looked at Castiel for support, but Castiel remained dispassionate. It was nice to have him there. Nice and hard. At least Alex had the luxury of going home and forgetting about Dean's shit. Castiel remembered. Often what came out in the sessions bothered Castiel far more than it did Dean. Especially the stuff about John. Probably because Castiel had assumed that both Dean's parents were dead and it came as a bit of a shock to him when he learned that John, like Castiel's own father, was mostly absent from the life of his sons.

'Well, that's a first,' Alex replied. She seemed to change the subject then, but Dean had come to know her and a shift was never really a shift with Alex. So, he was weary when she gave him one of her hypothetical situations.

'Let's say you respond to a fire and in an upstairs bedroom there's a person,' she said.

'I know what you're doing,' Dean accused and he narrowed his eyes at her. Over time it had become easier to discuss his mother and her death, even in front of Castiel, but his feelings about the event had remained unchanged.

'Of course you know what I'm doing; you're not an idiot,' Alex replied, impatiently, but she winked at Castiel. She shuffled her notes and fished out a relevant piece of paper. Dean recognised it. It was crumpled and riddled with barely legible notations in between neat handwriting. It detailed the sequence of events the night his mother had died. His hands started to tremble slightly. They still did that; it was mildly annoying.

'That's one thing we agree on then,' Dean snapped, sourly. The disapproving gaze of Castiel stung his back.

'Why the hostility, Dean? You're in front of the door. Heat is coming off of it. What does that mean?' she asked. She might as well have been a surgeon, asking him where it hurt, asking him to describe the pain, while an axe was buried up to the hilt in his shoulder.

'There's a fire in the room behind the door,' he supplied, reluctantly. She wrote something down on another piece of paper, purely for the appearance of it, Dean suspected. He also didn't believe she needed the glassed that were perched on her nose, since she was always staring at him over the rim of them.

'Alright, there was an investigation after you mother's death, right? What was the point of origin of the fire?' she queried. Her pencil was ready to take down details. Details.

'An electrical heater short circuited.'

'It was in the bedroom?'

'Yes.'

'So, the fire started in your mother's room. Alright. I've thought about the smoke,' she said and she sounded pensive. Dean watched Castiel lean forward in his chair. His boyfriend looked at Alex, as if she was going to uncover something. But if something was going to be revealed Dean knew that he was the one who would provide it. And it would involve dragging up shit that he had spent 22 years trying to hide.

'What about it?' he asked, with a resigned sigh.

'Doesn't hot air go up?' Alex pondered in a puzzled voice. It was an act, Dean knew. She was not puzzled; she was one of the smartest people Dean knew and that meant a lot since he also knew Sam and Jess and Castiel. If she went on the internet and spoke to firemen, she had absorbed the available information like a sponge. She knew.

'Usually.'

'Then why did the smoke come from under the door?'

'Did it?' Dean asked, trying to sound bored. He knew it did. The only thing his mind had made up about that night was the bubbling paint. Of course, also the scenarios where he had opened the door and his life would have turned out completely different. The actual memory was tainted by only that one example of a youthful and overactive imagination; paint bubbling on the wall.

'You said it did,' Alex said and she tapped the crumpled paper, where she had written it down. Mercilessly, she continued, 'What kind of smoke was it? Wispy and grey or thick and black?'

'Black,' Dean provided.

'Why did it come from under the door? Was the door shut so hermetically otherwise that it couldn't seep through above the door, but only under the door?' Alex asked and Dean glanced at the clock on the wall. The hand counting down the seconds was hardly moving. They had been talking for about five minutes. Dean thought it felt more like half an hour.

'It could have been,' Dean grudgingly admitted, though it was more of a lie. A lie Alex naturally caught.

'But it wasn't?' she pursued.

'No, it wasn't. Smoke was coming through every available gap, but the gap underneath the door was the biggest, so most of the smoke came through there,' Dean muttered. The light tremor in his hands worsened and he squeezed his hands between his knees.

'What does that mean?'

'It means that the room was probably filled with smoke.'

'Which means; what exactly?'

'I don't know.'

'What does that mean for the person inside?' Alex asked softly. The person: Mary, his mother. Dean hated the way he felt. Like the walls were closing in, like he was alone. How could he feel like that when Castiel was sitting _right there_?

'Carbon monoxide poisoning.'

'Alright, and what about the heater? Was there something close to the heater that could have caught fire?' Alex went on, but at the same time she left him a little breathing room. She was good. Dean trusted her. No matter how much he resisted, he knew that Alex would never push him too far. She set the pace, but whenever she felt he wasn't ready, she waited.

'It was standing on the carpet,' Dean remembered. He hadn't thought about the heater in ages. Mostly, he went over waking up and not saving his mother. Over and over. That's one of the reasons why he didn't like to think about it. It was like a carousel that, once you were aboard, you could never get off. It just went round and round. Only, instead of wooden horses there were doors he should have opened and things he should have done.

'Something else?' she prodded.

'The... The bed,' Dean said.

'If someone was in the bed, sleeping, would the fire get to her?' Alex asked. They were hovering between the hypothetical fire and the fire that killed his mother. Dean appreciated the vague in-between space, because it allowed him to ever so slightly view it as an adult. View it from the viewpoint of a 27 year old, instead of being there and seeing it happen.

'It was not a big room.'

'In what way wasn't it a big room?'

'She slept with the windows closed. The oxygen would have run out pretty fast.'

'So, she would be unconscious or...'

'Dead. Yes,' Dean admitted and he was surprised at his matter-of-factness. This was pure speculation. What if he had opened the door and she was still alive?

'What if you had opened the door?' Alex tried and Dean glanced at her. His wrists were starting to hurt from the continued shaking. What he really wanted to do was flee from this room. Open the door and leave, but he had promised Sam. He had promised Castiel.

'I should have,' he said, aggressively.

'I'm not saying whether you should or shouldn't have. The fire started in Mary's bedroom. Black smoke was coming from under the door. I'm asking, what does that tell you as a fireman? Would it be wise to open the door?' Alex calmly continued.

This was breakthrough time, right? But he didn't want to have a breakthrough. For over two decades he had dealt with that night the only way he knew how and it hadn't been so bad. Sure, sometimes he needed to get drunk to forget and he constantly pushed people away. Jess and Castiel were the only people he had formed a meaningful relationship with in that time and that was only because Jess loved Sam and took Dean in too. And Castiel, simply because he was too good for this world.

Dean might be an idiot, but he knew there was stuff under there. Underneath the guilt. He had been so sad after his mother died, until he accepted the guilt. The guilt had served him well. It was a good excuse to hide behind and it kept away all those other things he didn't want to feel.

'I should have,' he stubbornly repeated.

'Who's answering, Dean? I'm asking an experienced fireman. What would have happened if you had opened the door?' Alex insisted. Swallowing, Dean extracted his hands from between his knees. They were trembling uncontrollably. Alex pretended not to notice as she gazed at him. Dean balled them into fists, then stretched his fingers and formed fists again. They didn't stop shaking. He pressed his short nails into his palms, so he could breathe.

'It would have fed the fire. The sudden supply of oxygen might have led to a blast,' Dean said. Satisfied that she had gotten him to say that, Alex changed tactics.

'Does your father feel guilty?'

'Maybe. He has not handled my mother's death well.'

'You have mentioned this. He is a lawyer.'

'Yes.'

'He sues people or companies that he deems responsible for fires?' Alex asked, consulting her notes. What was this? From mommy issues to daddy issues? The time was still not up and Dean recognised the look in Alex's eyes. She thought she had only scraped the surface and she was going to dig deeper, while Dean felt that he was already fucking bleeding.

'Yes.'

'Is that out of guilt, you think?'

'Maybe,' Dean noncommittally answered. He really didn't know. John didn't talk about that night and only mentioned their mother sporadically. Wouldn't that be a bitch? If all those years John had been thinking that it was his fault and Dean thought it was his fault. The Winchesters were certainly good at holding onto their shared misery, without actually sharing it.

'Because he wasn't there?'

'Could be.'

'Do you think he_ should _feel guilty?'

'He wasn't there. If he was he probably would have died too,' Dean said. He didn't think that night would have gone any differently if John hadn't been working. They would have lost both their parents, instead of losing Mary and slowly losing John. In effect, Dean thought, his father did die that night. He couldn't blame him for not being there. Unlike Sam, Dean couldn't even blame him for not being there after their mother died.

'What about your brother? Does Sam feel guilty?' Alex asked, jotting down something.

'No, I don't think so. Why should he?' Dean asked. He couldn't think of someone less responsible for what had happened that night than Sam.

'Taking care of a baby is exhausting. Maybe if she hadn't been so tired, she would have woken up in time,' she suggested.

'That's stupid,' Dean snapped and, when Alex chuckled, he asked, 'Is that funny?'

She shook her head and apologised. Behind Dean, Castiel moved and his chair creaked. Both Alex and Dean looked at him. Embarrassed and colouring slightly, Castiel mouthed 'sorry,' but Alex's gaze stayed fixed on him.

'Can I ask Castiel a couple of questions? Do either of you mind that?' she asked after a sort pause. Dean looked at Castiel, who shrugged. Dean gestured for Alex to go right ahead. She leaned forward and smiled.

'Dean has told me about you. Your mother died during childbirth,' she bluntly began. Dean glanced at Castiel, but he didn't seem to mind in the least. Well, he didn't know his mother, Dean argued, so maybe that's why he doesn't care. Also, while Dean was a mess, Castiel was a well-adjusted man.

'Yes.'

'Do you feel you have caused her death?' Alex asked and Dean's head snapped up to protest her hurtful question. However, before he could say anything Castiel answered.

'No,' he said. Dean stared at him. How could he _not_ feel that? His mother had died giving birth to him. Technically, Castiel _had_ caused her death.

'Do you feel you should have died too then?'

'No.'

'You may be entitled to survivor's guilt, but you don't have it. Would you like to try for tuberculosis instead?' Alex joked and Dean felt a little lost. He was used to feeling shackled to one spot during therapy, because he felt he couldn't move; he couldn't escape. Now, he was almost drifting through the room and no one noticed. What where they talking about? Was this some sort of fellow academics talk that he didn't understand? Like a secret handshake? He had one with Castiel, but it only involved one hand and it wasn't something you performed in public.

'Vonnegut?' Castiel guessed and Alex nodded. At least, Dean was relaxing and breathing. His hands were almost still.

'What's with the ridiculous questions?' Dean said and he realised he sounded tired. Alex looked at him and seemed to like what she was seeing. Shuffling her notes together, she put them into one file. The file was thicker than Dean would have expected, yet also thinner. One inch for one night, but also one inch for 22 years. She leaned back in her chair and took off her glasses. Dean felt this was a bad sign. Not once in the ten past sessions had she taken off her glasses.

'What if and if only; those are ridiculous questions. Not for you, but in the grander scheme of things. You suffer from a posttraumatic stress syndrome, Dean,' she announced. They had received training about how to deal with PTSD victims at the station. People who had seen their loved ones die, screaming. Dean accepted that fires were traumatic, especially if you lost someone, but those people had usually witnessed something that was forever seared in their memory. Not just a closed door with smoke billowing from under it and a frightening silence.

So, that couldn't be right, Dean thought. Survivors from the Holocaust, soldiers returning from war, rape victims, parents who had seen their children engulfed by flames; they could suffer from PTSD. What he had been through was horrible, but somehow it didn't qualify. He hadn't seen anything. His mother hadn't even screamed. But then again, didn't he always think the silence was worse?

'Yes, you do,' Alex said, to his disbelieving face. She started to tick off symptoms. He avoided stimuli associated with the trauma. He relived the trauma. He had an alcohol problem, which luckily was less severe than it could have been. He reacted with anger or denial when anything related to the trauma was mentioned. His work and relationships were affected by the trauma.

'I didn't know it was diagnosis time,' Dean said. His throat was dry. It was the feeling he usually had before he had a drink. Except now he was almost an alcoholic and that put the desire for a drink in an entirely different perspective.

'You've already come a long way. We are able to talk about what happened, though I have to drag it out of you. You've discussed it with other people. People you trust. That's something a lot of people suffering from a PTSD can't do. However, you still have a violent reaction to the trauma and your first impulse remains to repress it.'

'I'm sorry I laughed. It's not funny, it's sad. It is because you don't think your brother or father should feel guilty. You admit that your mother was dead; either killed by the smoke inhalation or by the lack of oxygen, long before you were standing by her door. Yet, you think that you could have changed the outcome of that night. By opening the door or giving your address to the emergency services,' Alex said. It didn't make sense. But a lot of things didn't make sense and at least he was living. He was a functioning member of society.

Barely; Sam would have said.

'Dean, it was not your fault. There was nothing you could have done. Can you accept that?' Alex asked.

'It was not my fault?' Dean tried. He hadn't meant it to be a question, but it was. Nor did it sound terribly convincing.

'That doesn't sound like you believe it,' Alex objected. Dean sighed. He knew others believed it. No one blamed him, except Dean himself. Castiel could smother it with kisses and make him consider the possibility that he was not responsible. Sam and Jess could quell the truth with compassion. At the end of the day, though, Dean carried the same burden.

'Sam told me. Castiel tells me, but it doesn't change the way I feel,' Dean admitted.

'Well, there is something called Cognitive Behavioural Therapy and it's the common treatment for PTSD. We'll examine the way you feel and how you react right now to the trauma and we'll try to replace those thoughts and actions with healthier ones. And we're going to work towards you believing that it wasn't your fault. I'm good, you're cooperating, and you've got a bunch of people who love you and support you; we're going to get there,' Alex reassured him. The session was nearly over, Dean saw. He straightened up in his chair.

'Yeah, I hope so.'

'You will have to mourn her, though. Have you been sad over her death?' Alex probed. She was like some freaky mind reader. Like she knew that the guilt had covered up all these feelings that Dean had also suppressed.

'I... For a short time,' he stammered.

'You were too busy feeling guilty?' Alex guessed. She smiled at him and he appreciated her light hearted tone. He could feel Castiel behind him, watching his every move, and he nodded.

'Well, that's all going to come up. Everything the guilt has been obscuring. Sadness, anger, love; you name it. It's not going to be pretty. PTSD can be emotionally numbing. The other emotions that you haven't allowed yourself to feel could be much more painful,' Alex prepared him with a cheery voice. Dean didn't think he'd ever been as afraid in his entire life.

'More painful than thinking I basically killed my mother?' he joked, but it was too soon. His hands stayed still, but it was too soon.

'You loved her. You should have been heartbroken and you skipped that. It's going to hurt like hell, Dean,' Alex warned him. She got up from behind her desk and shook his hand. It was a formal thing they did after every session. No matter how much she had dug through his most private and painful feelings, they maintained the gesture. After two sessions she had asked him whether he still wanted the handshake and he had nodded eagerly. It made it easier, somehow. In a way, it enabled him to leave behind most of what he had said, because it was just a business transaction.

He talked, she listened. She asked questions, he paid her. Castiel shook her hand too. Dean liked him there, like a sort of anchor. Something that he could hold on to when he felt he was drowning. Something that reminded him of why he was there in the first place; subjecting himself to this curious form of abuse.

(***)

However, when they were in the car, Dean's hands started to shake again. There was nothing there. The Metallica CD was in his apartment, no cigarette, not even gum. Booze, he guessed, was off limits now. Either way, that wasn't there either. There was only Castiel. He sat next to him, watching how Dean searched for something.

'Perhaps you should let it come,' he suggested. Dean glared at him. He fisted the loose fabric of Castiel's sweater between his hands and twisted. Castiel didn't do anything. He didn't move. He didn't say a word. Panting, Dean untangled his fingers and grabbed Castiel's shoulders.

'I can't feel it,' Dean said. Castiel shook his head. Dean's fingers were digging into Castiel's flesh. It hurt. It hurt Dean, so it must definitely hurt Castiel. Still, he just sat there.

'You don't... I don't want to feel it,' Dean groaned. The shaking was spreading. He could feel it in his stomach. This was one of those violent reactions, he thought with scorn. Violence was good, so it was either fighting or having sex. He tried to kiss Castiel, but Castiel evaded his mouth. Dean pushed him back against the seat. Suddenly, Castiel wrenched Dean's fingers from his shoulders and shoved him away.

'I'm sorry, but no,' he said. Fighting it is, Dean decided. He raised his fist. Castiel stared at him, immobile, and Dean couldn't do it. He lowered his fist. His shoulders started to shake too.

'You've gotta... Please, _something_,' Dean pleaded. The shaking hurt so much and he felt so tired. He had a head ache and his eyes were burning and he felt as if he was only half there. Had he known; Dean wondered. That little boy; had he known? That it was too late? Had he somehow always known? That couldn't be true.

All those years of punishing himself and lashing out at everyone. He couldn't have known, because otherwise, why would he have done that? Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn't make a sound. Dean turned away from Castiel and leaned against the door. His vision was blurred; he couldn't make out the dashboard. He remembered taking the record from the trunk of the car and hiding it. That was the moment.

(***)

22 years ago.

They had been staying with Bobby for a short time. It was a week after the fire. Bobby and John had been talking in the kitchen and Dean had listened to their conversation.

'It's no one's fault,' Bobby had said. John hadn't said anything. His father's shoulders had been shaking and he had been making weird noises: he had been crying. Bobby had patted his shoulder and he had looked singularly unhappy too. Dean had gone straight for the car and had taken the record. His father hadn't looked in the trunk. There was nothing to put in there, anyway. Everything had been destroyed in the fire.

Dean had gone upstairs, to an empty room in Bobby's house. He had hidden the record in a closet. That had reminded him of the glass statue and he had started to cry too. He missed her so much. Too much. It was too big. He tried to play with Sam like before, but it didn't work. Since his mother 'went away,' like dad kept saying, Dean was so sad.

He had trouble sleeping and didn't feel like eating. He had nightmares about that night. It was cold, but when Bobby had tried to light the fireplace Dean had completely flipped out. He had screamed and thrown himself to the floor trashing his arms and legs. When Sam started to cry, Dean would start violently and shiver all over his body. John hardly seemed to notice that anything was wrong with Dean, but Dean knew his behaviour worried Bobby and it disturbed Sam. Sam with his weird baby mojo was able to sense Dean's moods and cried more often.

So, he had tried to be normal, but it seemed that no matter how hard he tried, something was missing inside. It was not a feeling he had wanted to experience for the rest of his life, so that day he had stopped crying. He had hidden the record in the closet and he had hidden all these feelings that he had, because they were useless. They made him unhappy and they made Sam unhappy. Something about what Bobby had said had struck a chord, because John always said that if you looked long enough you discovered someone behind it all.

Sam was a baby and John wasn't there, so Dean was to blame. He had tried out that feeling and it had felt a whole lot better than being sad and wanting to cry all the time. In fact, the feeling fit him like a glove. He had believed it and it had become true. From that day on guilt was the feeling he felt when he thought about his mother's death, but he steadily got better at not thinking about it.

(***)

'Cas,' Dean breathed. Castiel touched his shoulder gently and Dean faced him. He clutched the other man's shoulders and buried his face in the wrinkled sweater. Spasms of grief were convulsing his body as he leaned into Castiel's embrace. The outpouring of sorrow exhausted Dean, but his body refused to stop. His breathing was laboured and loud sobs filled the car. After what seemed like an eternity, Dean felt worn out by the too long suppressed emotion. Slowly, he felt himself relaxing in Castiel's arms.

'I miss her. I miss her so much,' he whispered with his lips against the soft cotton. Castiel rubbed his back and murmured that he knew.

'How do you know?' he asked.

'I miss my mother and I didn't even know her,' Castiel explained. Dean pulled out of the hug and used his sleeves to dry his eyes. The skin around his eyes felt raw and the rest of his face must be streaked with red and tears. Again Castiel didn't do anything, except look at him. He was probably the only person in the world who could look at Dean and make him feel loved. Dean might feel lonely, he might feel alone, but all Castiel had to do was look at him and he filled a void.

A void that Dean had long forgotten was there. Until he broke up with Castiel and discovered that something was missing inside. Again. It worked both ways, however. Castiel loved Dean and that was wonderful, but loving Castiel somehow also filled the void. To allow himself to love someone was scary, yet he did. He loved Castiel.

'I'm not a cause,' Dean warned with a hoarse voice, 'I don't want you to save me; I just want you to love me. Because I love you.'

He struggled to keep his composure and eventually managed to croak out a strangled, 'So, you wanna fuck?'

'Why don't you tell me about your mother? And then we'll make love,' Castiel responded, but, after reconsidering his words, he somewhat abashed added, 'That didn't come out exactly the way I had intended it.'

'Like really creepy foreplay?' Dean joked.

'And your father? Will you tell me about him? It occurred to me that he didn't come to your birthday party,' Castiel continued.

'Well, you can't have everything,' Dean said, but that wasn't entirely true. Castiel was pretty much everything, at least to Dean, and Dean had him. And he had no intention of ever letting him go. Not now that Castiel had set fire to his heart. Good irony, good fire, good love; apparently, good things do happen.

The end.

(***)

_Do not go gentle into that good night_ is a poem by Dylan Thomas

''You may be entitled to the Survivor's Syndrome, but you didn't get it,' she said. 'Would you like to try for tuberculosis instead?'' is an excerpt from the novel _Bluebeard_ by Kurt Vonnegut.

'Good things do happen, Dean,' is what Castiel tells Dean in _Lazarus rising_, the first episode of season 4 of Supernatural.


End file.
